


into the fold

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Bottom Tony Stark, Dom Steve Rogers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Objectification, Porn With Plot, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Situational Humiliation, Sub Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-04-30 07:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14492238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: For the prompt: post-civil war (if possible) the team find out Tony is a submissive. The Accords mandate that submissives have to be controlled (or like, owned) by the team or team leader in order to continue being a superhero. Bonus point if Tony secretly craves it, but is super bratty and hates it at first, and Steve is really gentle with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is absolutely awful. A bad excuse for orgies, and objectification, and sub-tony fluff. You have been warned.
> 
> Inevitably, there’s dub-con and probably Stockholm syndrome. It’s a work of fiction. If you’re not into that stuff, don’t read, this is literally 100% an excuse for porn
> 
> Also this takes place in some made up time where, post-civil war, the team is inexplicably back together (???) there are still hard feelings, but they’re most made up, anddd I guess it’s before infinity war. Basically, it’s a porn time bubble. Enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> [Buy Me a Coffee](https://ko-fi.com/G2G0DLLE)

Steve considers him. They have him on his hands and knees on the desk, inspecting him, like he’s some kind of bitch, like he’s an attraction at the world’s most morbid museum. He gently brushes Tony’s hair back from his head, lightly squeezes his chin. “I always wondered,” he says, conversationally. “I suspected, I think. What are the odds?”  
   
Is Steve talking to him? He squeezes his chin, tighter; Tony’s eyes water. “One-in-two-hundred,” he manages, keeping his eyes trained down.  
   
“That’s right, that was it. One in two-hundred men are submissive by birth. You had statistics on your side,” he notes, “easy to blend in. No one would suspect.”  
   
“Except you,” Tony bites out, despite himself.  
   
Steve smacks him, gently, on the cheek. It smarts. He wags his finger in front of Tony’s nose. “Don’t talk back, sweetheart.”  
   
Tony is a sweetheart, now. He used to just be ‘Stark’. He thinks he preferred it when they were equal, and Steve was allowed to hate him.  
   
Tony was screwed the second Ross found out his dirty little secret. If he was a _normal_ person, they’d probably lock him up some kind psychiatric facility, or shock him, or drug him till he’s a drooling cabbage. Truth is, you’re not _supposed_ to change your designation; to even want to is – a sickness. Which deserves to be punished.  
   
But Tony isn’t normal people, not by a long mile. Even Ross concedes they need him, and he does no one any good locked up in a cell, or on community service. So here’s what the Accords court mandated: therapy, obviously. House arrest, but not really; his curfew extends to whatever his Dominant wants it to be, and Steve is lenient. They’ve tagged his ankle, but no one pretends that Tony wouldn’t be able to remove it if he didn’t want to. And he belongs to all of them, now. He’s communal property. Part of the therapy is easing Tony back into what the psych calls an ‘appropriate lifestyle’.  
   
He’s the team bitch, is what that means.  
   
“I don’t like this,” Clint says, casually. Tony doesn’t know what he’s talking about; his hairstyle? His legs? The shape of his finely-trimmed beard? “I want him hairless.”  
   
His fingers creep lightly under Tony’s belly, pluck at a single hair just above his pubic bone. Tony yelps, and Clint laughs, smooths his fingers down. “Sorry,” he says, “I’ll warn you next time.”  
   
They don’t hold it out over him, not really. They don’t belittle him, like they could. Even Clint has a sense of – maybe it’s pity, actually. Tony thinks they just pity him.  
   
“We’ll discuss it,” Steve promises. “Maybe if he’s a bad boy. This would need to go too,” Steve says, tapping along his beard. “And maybe, if he’s a _really_ bad boy…”  
   
He runs his fingers through Tony’s hair, tugs, makes his arch his back. “But I wouldn’t want to do that,” he whispers, “’cause then, what would I have left to hold?”  
   
Tony flinches away, right into Sam’s hands. “Shh,” he says, soothing him like a frightened animal. “Steady there, Stark. We’re not going to hurt you.” Their hands are all over him, smoothing, touching, tweaking, pinching. No one touches his cock, but one of them spreads his cheeks, bares his hole to the air.  
   
“I think we should get him to keep it open,” Clint says casually. “I know the knots in the right places. Keeps his cheeks spread, he wouldn’t even be able to close.”  
   
“Maybe,” Steve says again, promising nothing. “We’ll see.”  
   
“You have a wife, man,” Bruce says with mild disapproval.  
   
“And she says if she could, she’d be here too.”  
   
Steve sighs. “Okay,” he says. “That’s enough. No fighting, he’s not going anywhere. There’s plenty of time for everyone to have a turn.”  
   
Tony recognises Bruce’s fingers; they’re the same hands that used to probe him when he was injured, with broken bones and a lacerated scalp. Now, he’s stroking Tony’s ribs, over and over, like he’s a prized pig. “I’m sorry, Tony,” he says. “For what it’s worth – I’m glad it’s us.”  
   
That doesn’t help, surprisingly.  
   
They leave him, him and Steve alone, together. Steve crouches by the table, rests his arms by Tony’s hands, looks up at him. “So,” he says, quietly. “How’s it going?”  
   
“Fuck you.”  
   
“Please don’t use that language.”  
   
“ _Please don’t use that language,”_ Tony mocks. “Yeah, well _fuck you._ And fuck you. And – hey, guess what? _Fuck. You.”_  
   
“I didn’t ask for this.”  
   
“Like hell you didn’t. I _know_ you asked for it.”  
   
“No, I mean – “ Steve frowns. “Sit up,” he says distractedly, “we’re not having this conversation while you’re on your hands and knees.” He throws Tony the fluffy white robe he’d been wearing before he stripped off for show and tell.  
   
“You mean what?” Tony snarls, bundling the robe around his waist. “Elaborate to me, Sir, oh fearless leader – “  
   
“Didn’t you hear? Bruce told you. After you failed the test – “  
   
“I didn’t fail.”  
   
“Right, but after you failed the test, Ross wanted to give you to the military. He wanted to send you away. _We_ stepped in, or – I did. Because I know that’s not what you want – “  
   
“And this is?”  
   
“It’s better than that,” Steve snaps. “And you _know_ it’s better than that, so save the dramatics.”  
   
Tony fixes his jaw. “If you were doing this for me,” he says quietly, “you’d leave it all at the door. The groping, the – I’m the dom bullshit. You’d tell Ross one thing, you’d do another, you’d let me live my life the way I wanted to live it – “  
   
“The way you _wanted_ to live it? As a dom who can’t get it up? Who lurches from one crisis to another – “  
   
“ _You’re_ a dom who lurches from one crisis to another – “  
   
“Your shrink is right. You need order. You need routine.”  
   
“You need to shove your routine up your ass.”  
   
A beat. Steve continues. “I have rules,” he says. “I’ll have your timetable drawn up.”  
   
“Steve – “  
   
“Wake-up is 06:30. Bedtime is before midnight. What you do with your time during the day is choice – unless we want you.”  
   
Tony used to be more than a sex slave. He used to his own person, not communal property.  
   
“You’re so generous.”  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
“I was being facetious.”  
   
“I know.” He pauses, picks up Tony’s belt where it’s discarded over the couch. Bends it, braces it, slaps it against his palm once, twice. “I’ll give you a pass,” he says casually. “Because you’re new to this. And because I know it’s a hard adjustment. But if you talk to me like that again… there will be a consequence.”  
   
Tony used to think of Steve as harmless. A bit of a stick in the mud, and slightly self-righteous, but mostly harmless.  
   
He’s starting to think Steve might be a sadist in disguise.  
   
   
He’s in bed by 11:30PM. Not because of Steve; no, he was just tired. It’s been a hard day, what with the strip show and Steve’s best mafiosa impersonation. The past few months have been – admittedly exhausting.  
   
Dominance is like a second skin. Tony hadn’t needed to think about it. He was aware it was driving him crazy. And he was aware it was illegal. But Howard Stark only had one son; he’s not the first man to dress his son up and call him dom. There’s a fucking precedent. The law exists for a reason.  
   
He wakes at 06:30, just like Steve wanted. Again: not for Steve. He’s working on the new nanite suit, it takes time and effort. So he’s slinking down to the workshop by 7 and eating breakfast there, working away like the busy bee he is.  
   
He almost forgets that his life doesn’t actually belong to him anymore.  
   
“I don’t want you spending all day down here,” Steve sighs, walking into the workshop like he owns it, which despite everything, he _doesn’t._ He picks at some sheets on the desk. “It’s not healthy.”  
   
“I don’t fully care what you think is healthy,” Tony says, bluntly, not turning round.  
   
“You think it’s good to spend all day working?” Steve says, eyebrow raised, like he’s talking to a child.  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Even if it means you haven’t seen or spoken to anyone at all? All day?”  
   
“If it means avoiding having to crawl on my hands and knees, then again: _yes.”_  
   
Steve sighs. “I know this is hard for you. Everyone said, this adjustment will be impossible – “  
   
“Yeah, you’re telling me.”  
   
“You’re on edge.”  
   
“I’m always on edge!” Tony snaps. He swallows it. Turns back to his work.  
   
“We care about you, Tony,” Steve says after a time, gentle. “We’re not doing this out of spite.”  
   
“Sure you’re not.”  
   
“We’re _not._ Except – except Clint, maybe,” Steve relents. “I won’t lie to you, he’s… a loose canon.”  
   
“No shit.”  
   
“He doesn’t have experience, his wife’s neutral. His kids are neutral. He’s not been around people like you like I have – “  
   
“ _People like me?!”_  
   
“Yes, people like you,” Steve says calmly. “Come upstairs, _talk_ to us. You’ll feel better. I’m ordering in – “  
   
“You don’t understand,” Tony spits, scathing. “How could I expect you to understand. ‘I won’t lie to you’, well tough shit, you already did.”  
   
Silence. Then: “Is this about Bucky? If he makes you uncomfortable, I understand. I won’t make you – “  
   
The screwdriver is in his hand, and then it’s not. He’s thrown it, hard; Steve dodges, it crashes into the wall behind his head.  
   
And then, there’s real silence.  
   
Steve seems to be considering. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, levelly.  
   
Tony shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, quickly turning back to his work. “Just – I’m sorry, that was wrong. I’ll come up – “  
   
“A bit too late for that, don’t you think?”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “Don’t.”  
   
“Don’t?”  
   
“Punish me,” Tony wheezes. “Please.”  
   
“You think you deserve it?”  
   
Tony doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how this works, what’s deserving of punishment and what’s not. “No. Yes. I don’t know. Just don’t, please.”  
   
He thinks, Steve will lock him in the cupboard until his fingertips bleed from scratching and he can’t scream anymore. He’ll beat his ass with a leather belt so he can’t sit. Make him stand until he drops, put his hands on the desk and rap a metal ruler across the knuckles –  
   
“Come here,” Steve says.  
   
Tony turns, braces himself against the desk. “Wait,” he says, “don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me.”  
   
Steve shakes his head. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, softly. “You just need to understand.”  
   
He’s shaking. Fuck, why is he shaking? Grow up, Stark. Get it together. Stop – embarrassing yourself, be stronger, be _better._ “It’s natural,” Steve is saying gently. “You’re allowed to be nervous,” he adds, stepping closer when it becomes apparent Tony can’t do it himself.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers. “Really, I didn’t mean it, I was just – you’re right, it’s hard for me, just give me another chance and I’ll do it right this time – “  
   
“Tony – “  
   
He holds up his palm, repulsor whining as it fires up, nanites spreading down his arm. “I mean it,” he warns, going for tough, not frantic. “I’ll blow your fucking head off if you take a step closer.”  
   
Steve stops. He holds up his hands. “You’re scared,” he says. “What are you scared of?”  
   
Tony scoffs. “Are you joking?”  
   
“No, I’m curious. What do you think I’m going to do to you?”  
   
“Fucking hell, I don’t know. Beat me. Whip me. Tie me up, leave me in closet.”  
   
Steve frowns. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
   
“Yeah, I believe you.”  
   
“Tony, I’m _not_ going to hurt you. You don’t like pain, I understand. It’s a hard limit for you, isn’t it?”  
   
“A – what?”  
   
“A hard limit. It means you don’t like it under any circum – “  
   
“I know what it means,” Tony snaps. “I just – didn’t think you would.”  
   
Stalemate. Steve raises an eyebrow. “Can I tell you what your punishment will be?”  
   
“No.”  
   
Steve sighs. “I’m not going to hurt you. You need to understand that no one here is – laughing at you. No one’s trying to mock you. You’re ours. You’re mine. You’re a _sub._ No one care if you kneel, or if you wear a collar. You’re welcome.”  
   
Tony doesn’t believe him, because he’s not an idiot.  
   
“Put down the repulsor,” Steve says, “I won’t ask again.”  
   
“What happens if I don’t?” Tony asks.  
   
“Then your punishment will last longer.”  
   
A beat. “What is my punishment?”  
   
“You’re going to go upstairs and sit with me. Naked.”  
   
Tony is shaking his head, firing up. “I’m not doing that.”  
   
“You are.”  
   
“I’m _not.”_  
   
“Then fire. Blow me away. Burn off my head.”  
   
“Stop it,” Tony mutters.  
   
“You can put a hole in my stomach, or you can put down the repulsor, take off your clothes, and go and sit on the couch.”  
   
“I _won’t.”_  
   
“If you don’t do it now, then it’ll be two days without clothes, and you’ll have to wear a sign that says why you’re being punished.”  
   
“I’m not – stop it! I’m not a boy, you can’t – “  
   
“Ten seconds. Put a hole in me, or strip.”  
   
“Steve, I – “  
   
“Nine.”  
   
“Wait! Hold on, just – give me – “  
   
“ – ght. Seven – “  
   
Tony clenches his fist. “Stop it. Stop it, I don’t want – “  
   
“Five. Four, three – “  
   
Tony drops the repulsor.  
   
“Two. On – “  
   
He starts to strip.  
   
   
He’s ashamed of his body.  
   
Not in the sense that he’s ugly; he knows he’s not. He’s always taken care of himself. He’s trim, lean, clean. It’s not judgement that upsets it, it’s that it’s _his_ body. Private. And when he was dominant – or at least, when he was pretending to be dominant – no one could touch him. No one wanted to. He owned himself.  
   
He doesn’t try to hide. He doesn’t cover himself with his hands, or stand by Steve’s hip. He walks to the kitchen with an enforced carelessness, like it doesn’t bother him at all, pours himself a coffee. Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “You in trouble?”  
   
“I guess,” Tony says, nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal.  
   
“How long?”  
   
“Until tomorrow.”  
   
“I’ll turn up the heating, then,” she says thoughtfully, and presses a loose, careless kiss to Tony’s shoulder as she leaves.  
   
Tony takes his coffee to the couch, perches there, legs drawn up. It’s warmer than the cold metal seats of the kitchen against his bare ass. Clint arrives, fresh from a workout, smirks at him. “Who did you piss off?” He asks.  
   
Tony’s eye twitches. “Who do you think, asshole?”  
   
He holds up his hand. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Tetchy,” he adds, muttering under his breath.  
   
He continues his work on his tablet. No one disturbs him. Vision floats through, makes small-talk, then picks up some of his books and leaves. When Steve comes back from his run, he lies out on the couch, panting, feet on the coffee table.  
   
Tony says nothing to him. He ignores him. Steve takes a swig from his water bottle, then says, “you’re angry at me.”  
   
Silent treatment.  
   
“Fine, you can be angry. I don’t blame you. It’s a hard adjustment.”  
   
Sure. It’s hard, realising you no longer belong to yourself.  
   
Steve is looking at him, he realises. Up and down. “What?” Tony snaps, despite himself, “what’s so interesting?”  
   
Steve shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing.”  
   
“Clearly, something is.”  
   
“You look good. Take good care of yourself.”  
   
Tony flushes, tries to ignore him. “And what?”  
   
“Put down the tablet.”  
   
“I’m working.”  
   
“I know,” Steve says gently – and Tony’s coming to hate that gentle tone, because he knows what it means, like pavlov’s bitch and a bell – “put down the tablet, come put your head in my lap.”  
   
Tony doesn’t want to. He just – does not want to. He doesn’t want to have to stare up, awkwardly, into Steve eyes. He doesn’t want to be a lapdog, not when he was once more than that, an _equal._  
   
But he wants his clothes back, too.  
   
Tony shuffles. He gets his body onto the couch, pushes back, lies down. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere blurry, lest Steve try to meet his eyes, but he doesn’t; he just sighs, rests his head on the couch back, and cards his fingers through Tony’s hair, stroking, scratching.  
   
Petting.  
   
He tolerates it, for a time. And then, he loses time. He shuts his eyes, briefly, and it’s like – falling into a vat of syrup.  
   
Every               thing  
   
                                    be        
comes  
   
                                                                        Slow  
   
He blinks, bleary. The light has changed direction. It’s warmer. Steve is still – touching him, so he shuts his eyes, exhales. Soft, droopy; everything is sweet, and peaceful. It’s the most – fantastic feeling Tony’s ever felt. _Ever._ It’s like being high and wrapped in the world’s softest blanket and dropped marshmallows. It’s like swimming in clouds.  
   
Someone lifts his legs, sits. He can hear them talking, hear people talking over his heads, but it’s like – listening through a wall, muffled, low, comforting. “Steve,” Tony tries to say, but his mouth won’t make the sounds he wants them to make. He opens his lips, tries to say, _what’s happening to me,_ but something is rested on his tongue, long, warm, slightly salty –  
   
Fingers. Tony sucks on them. Steve dips them down his throat, the place where gum meets cheek, swipes them around his mouth. Tony squirms, slightly; he wants the stroking back, now.  
   
“Can I pull him off?” Natasha asks.  
   
“Sure. Just don’t let him get it on the carpet.”  
   
She lets him lie on his back, just gently stroking his cock. Tony whimpers. He shuts his eyes, luxuriates in it, the sensation, the feel, hips twitching. Natasha’s hands are small, her fingers gentle. He can feel it building inside, more and more, like a wave, cresting, and when it comes he’s almost afraid –  
   
Still, he spills into her hand. She catches it in her palm, on her fingers, while Tony’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he’s boneless on Steve’s lap. “There,” she says, slightly smug. “Isn’t that better?”  
   
“Clean her hand,” Steve says lazily.  
   
Tony eats himself from her palm, licks at her fingers, sucks till every drop is gone. “See?” Natasha says. “He’s self-cleaning. Very efficient. No mess.”  
   
Tony rolls onto to his side, curls up, face resting in Steve’s belly. “This a punishment?” He slurs, slack-jawed and sleepy.  
   
Steve gently strokes his hair. “Sure it is,” he tells him. “You didn’t want to come here. You felt embarrassed. You thought we would laugh at you. But now you know we want you here, and we want you to feel good. So even though it was bad for you at first, it’s good for you now. And that’s what punishment is meant to be.”  
   
That’s not what dad said. Dad said, punishment is about making it hurt bad enough you don’t do it again. It’s about making you stronger, so the next time, you’re not so weak.  
   
“Well then I wanna get punished every day,” Tony slurs, and giggles.  
   
“We can do that,” Steve laughs.  
   
“Oh boy,” someone says – Bruce? – “isn’t he a sweetie under all of it.”  
   
“He sure is,” Steve says, letting Tony grab at his hand where it’s slung over the couch cushions, suck on his fingers.  
   
Tony giggles again. He feels – elated, like he’s flying. Like he’s drugged. A high. He rolls himself so he’s facing Steve’s belly, clutching his hand to his chest like stuffed toy. “What’s so funny?” Steve asks.  
   
“D’know,” Tony whispers, and cackles to himself.  
   
They keep talking. “He’s gone under pretty fast,” someone says.  
   
“Well, he’s not used to it,” someone responds, defensive.  
   
“He’s right, we need to watch it. The drop will be killer.”  
   
Tony can’t believe his eyes are getting heavy. It’s only late afternoon. He thinks – he thinks he might fall asleep. “I think I might fall asleep,” he says, yawning.  
   
“Sure, sweetheart, you can sleep.”  
   
Oh, good. If Steve says so, then it is so. He’ll just – shut his eyes now, rest up… just a nap, he’s not even that tir –  
   
   
When he wakes up, thirteen hours later, he’s wrapped in a blanket. It takes him some time to place himself, and to remember; he’s not on the couch. Does he have a vague memory of being moved? Maybe. It’s – this is –  
   
Steve’s bed, sans Steve. Huh. Go figure. Tony’s mouth tastes like death. His head is – not good. Someone’s left a glass of water and an advil by the bed, like he’s hungover or something. Come to think of it, he _feels_ hungover…  
   
He tries his feet on the floor. Almost steady. There’s a pile of clothes on a chair by the bathroom, a sticky note that reads ‘for Tony’. No underwear. Maybe that’s one of Steve’s rules; wake-up at six on weekdays, no alcohol, an hour’s exercise everyday and – oh, by the way, no underwear you dirty slut.  
   
Tony pulls on the sweat pants and the soft T-Shirt, brushes his teeth, gargles, spits, washes his face. He doesn’t bother with a shower, because he suddenly thinks: I’d like to be in bed. So instead of heading down to lab, he climbs back into Steve’s queensized monstrosity, with all its comforters and pillows, hunkers down. He’s asleep, like a snap.


	2. Chapter 2

This time, when he wakes up, he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.  
   
Sitting up makes the blood rush to his head; the time on Steve’s clock tells him it’s early afternoon. He’s slept for the better half of a day, _what the fuck._  
   
He’s still wearing the clothes he’d put on earlier, white T and grey sweats. He feels like – he’s crashing, but there’s no wave. It’s like being ill, but – with no bite. He’s just tired, exhausted; he feels dirty, yet knows he’s clean. There are no words. He just wants – he wants –  
   
“Ah hah,” Clint says, spying him. “We wondered when you might make your way back to us.”  
   
Tony rubs a hand over his eye, bleary. “Go to hell,” he mutters, setting the coffee pot.  
   
“Have a nice beauty sleep, sweetheart?”  
   
“Does it look like I had a good sleep?” He goes to pick up the pot, but Clint is there, taking it from his hand, pouring it into his mug for him, like he’s an invalid, like he can’t do it himself.  
   
Tony snatches it, boiling coffee spilling onto his hand, burning him. Clint looks disapproving. “You’re dropping like it’s hot, Stark.”  
   
“What?” He asks, feinging ignorance. “Don’t talk in riddles, Barton.”  
   
“You’re dropping. Like, hard. You shouldn’t be having this,” Barton says, taking away the coffee.  
   
“Hey!”  
   
“Sorry. Here, try this.” He turns, rummages through the fridge, picks out a protein shake flavoured strawberry. “This’ll help. I’ll fix you up something good.”  
   
“I can cook for myself,” Tony snaps, breaking the lid and downing it in three large swigs. “Hey, asshole: did you hear me? I said I could cook for myself.”  
   
“Aw,” Natasha says, in that flat way she has, “and to think, you were so sweet yesterday.”  
   
“Oh, Jesus,” Tony mutters, turning away, feeling his cheeks flush. He had almost forgotten, lying there in Steve’s lap while Natasha had played with him, like he was – like he was a toy, a thing for her to carelessly pleasure. Sucking on her fingers, squirming and whimpering like –  
   
Like an idiot.  
   
“It’s alright,” Natasha says, “you don’t need to be shy. You were lovely last night, babe. A real treat.”  
   
She sounds earnest, but you never know with Natasha. She could be – teasing him. Tony knows he isn’t good yet, he knows he isn’t experienced, he doesn’t _want_ them to think he’s stupid, that he’s no-good, that he can’t do it properly because he can, and he wants to, and –  
   
And do you hear yourself, Stark? What are you, some kind of mincing, two-bit whore putting on a show? Drop it, forget it, who gives a fuck what they think? This is punishment, not a vacation; these people are _complicit._ They’re punishing you for existing.  
   
Tony ignores her, because he can’t make his brain work itself up to a pithy reply, and steals back his coffee, drinks it scalding hot even though it burns, hurt his throat. It’s the principle of it.  
   
“Oh no,” Natasha says, raising an eyebrow. “I think it’s having a tantrum.”  
   
It takes him a second to realise they’re talking about him. Go figure.  
   
“I told _it,”_ Clint says, forcefully, taking the mug out of Tony’s hand, “that _it_ couldn’t drink coffee. Seriously. It will _crash,”_ he says pointedly at Tony, “if it drinks that shit.”  
   
“It doesn’t understand,” Natasha says lazily, sitting on a stool and rearranging the fruit bowl that _Tony_ paid for, in a facility that _Tony_ built, “it’s never dropped before. It doesn’t get how this works, so we’ve got to teach it.”  
   
Tony’s left eye twitches. “I have a name.”  
   
“Hmm,” Natasha says, sounding bored, “Clint, did it just speak?”  
   
Tony turns, spins, ready to – what, launch at her? Punch her, throw something at her? Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “Look, Clint. It’s hard.”  
   
Hard? Is – Tony is. What the fuck? Jesus, what the actual _fuck._ It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself, it’s some kind of crazy – his hormones are all over the place, his blood sugar is crashing, his body is giving him mixed signals. That’s all it is, that’s all this is. He’s not – he wouldn’t get off, not on being called an it and told how to take his lunch –  
   
“Do you think we should tell it rut against the cabinet?” Clint asks, conversationally, slicing tomatoes for a sandwich.  
   
“No, because then it would have to clean it, and that’s not hygenic. Let’s removes body fluids from where we eat, thanks, Clint.”  
   
“I don’t know,” Clint says, sucking juice off his thumb. “I think it would like it. I say, let’s make it, to show it whose boss. Or maybe we could put it on the floor and see if it gets off on the ground.”  
   
“Or,” Natasha says, “it could sit here, and eat the sandwich you’ve made for it, and then it can go and rest.” She says this gently, looking Tony in the eyes. “Seriously,” she adds, voice lower. “Tony. Come here. Eat. You’ll feel better for it.”  
   
Grudgingly, he sits. “All I do is rest,” he mutters.  
   
“Well, that’s your job now,” she says gently. “Getting better. It’s your main job, your only job.”  
   
“What if I wasn’t sick to begin with?” He dares, chancing a look up at her. But she doesn’t respond, just watches him, looking sad, almost pitying.  
   
“You’re up,” Steve says. He’s sweaty again. Is this man’s whole life one big workout session? “Oh good, and Clint’s making you a sandwich.”  
   
“Against my protests.”  
   
“You need to eat,” Steve says, pouring an electrolyte solution down his throat. “How is he?” He asks Natasha and Clint, like Tony isn’t there. “Dropping?”  
   
“He is. We had a discussion on the merits throwing temper tantrums when things aren’t going his way. He took it well.”  
   
“Again, I’m still here,” Tony puts in, irritated.  
   
“I know you are,” Steve says, fondly. “Well, that’s good. Like I’ve been saying, it’ll be a hard adjustment, but…” he stops by Tony, towel slung over his shoulders. He takes Tony’s chin, tips up his head, smiles benevolently, warm. _Oh,_ Tony thinks, suddenly drowsy, like he’s been pumped full of syrup, _I’ve made him happy._ “It’ll be worth it,” Steve says, slowly, pointedly, at him.  
   
Tony finds himself nodding. He’s rewarded with another smile. _God,_ he finds himself flushing, from his toes to his cheeks, suddenly shy, _I want him to do that again._  
   
“Eat up,” Natasha says, tapping the table in front of him. Tony blinks. Huh? Oh. There’s a sandwich, cut up into four triangles. Finger food. He should… complain. He should say, he’s not a child, he doesn’t need his food cut up for him, but… but it _is_ easier to eat. He sits there, quietly munching, swinging his feet on the stool.  
   
When he’s done, he pushes away his plate. “I’m finished,” he says, like he’s drugged. Somewhere, in his mind, rationality is screaming at him: what are you doing? Why are you acting like this? But it’s natural, utter and total instinct, and he doesn’t want to give into rationality. Rationality is scary. It’s loud, it’s bitter, it’s exhausting. He wants to float. He wants Steve to smile at him again, like he’s done well.  
   
“You okay?” Steve asks. “Want anything else? Some water? How are you feeling?”  
   
“My head hurts,” Tony lisps, honestly. “I could do with some Tylenol.”  
   
So they give him Tylenol and water, just like that. Tony doesn’t even need to think about it. It’s done for him.  
   
“Thank you,” he says quietly, after finishing the glass. “That was nice and cold.”  
   
He feels very – placid. Removed. Sunken, or rather – under. Buried beneath cotton wool. He only hears what he needs to hear. “Good job,” Steve says; that registers. “This will get easier,” he says, but Tony doesn’t really know what he’s talking about. When Steve tells him to stand, he does, follows him away like a lamb and his shepherd.  
   
Tony wonders, is he allowed to ask for things? Like if he says, Steve, can you please let me suck your fingers again? Or maybe, could you please stroke my hair? They’re sitting together on the couch, and Steve is all warm, one arm slung over Tony’s shoulders. Could he ask? Tony doesn’t know the rules, what’s expected of him. He’s still hard, but it doesn’t bother him, not really; he can just live with it, that pleasant arousal.  
   
Here’s the killer: he sits there. For five hours. People come and go, Steve leaves and returns, he’s brought drinks and blankets and pillows, but for five hours, he’s content to just lie on the couch, daydreaming yet also blissfully blank. When Bruce arrives, strokes his hair, and Tony stretches out like a contented cat, luxuriates in the small scratches across his scalp. He doesn’t even _listen_ to whatever conversation he and Vision are having, it means nothing to him. They could be talking about him, he doesn’t even _care._  
   
By the end of the day, although true tiredness starts to set in, Tony is rising up out of it. He feels more centered. Grounded. It’s hard to explain. When he eats dinner with the rest of them, he’s suddenly an equal: no one calls him ‘it’, or tries to bend him over. He sits at the head, with Steve, where he would have sat back when he was dominant. They talk about politics, and Tony puts too much pepper on his food and sneezes, and they laugh.  
   
At bed, the sheets are blessedly cool. It’s like slipping into a pool on a hot summer’s night; he sleeps, easily, and well.  
   
   
He’s starting to understand why the board would be worried.  
   
Before the test, submissiveness was just something he repressed. He knew about it in the way that he knew about dominance; actions, with no real feeling attached. He couldn’t really understand how it would impact him, other than people wouldn’t be happy, would think him weak.  
   
He gets it, now. Doms, they know what submissives are like because they rule them. They know what it’s like to get them wrapped around their finger. Tony never knew, because apart from pretending, his sexual escapades range from the frighteningly vanilla to the devilishly boring.  
   
He thinks his dad might have been right. Which is.  
   
A punch in the gut.  
   
(Literally).  
   
He doesn’t know how he’ll ever have time to work again. One quick tug on the couch and he’s out for the count for 24-hours afterwards, floating in a blissed out haze mired by the occasional sugar-level drop. How is he ever supposed to _live?_ Is this what his life will be like, for the rest of his life? Will he ever be _real_ again, more than an it, a plaything, a tool?  
   
He thinks he knows the answer, although he’s been wrong before.  
   
   
It wasn’t an escape attempt: he explains this to Steve, slowly, like he’s talking to a child. Steve, if I wanted to escape I would have cut this fucking tag off my ankle. I would have taken a suit. I’d already be gone, and you wouldn’t have a chance in hell in finding me.  
   
A cry for attention, Steve had said. You wanted us to chase you.  
   
More like testing boundaries, Tony had sneered back. Now I know how you’ll react when I actually do blow this joint.  
   
Steve wasn’t happy with that. “After everything we did,” he says, “after we showed you how good it could be.”  
   
“Excuse me if I don’t jump for joy.”  
   
“I need to make you understand,” Steve says, looking at him like’s a problem, a puzzle. “You need to adjust. I have some ideas, but it’s nothing you’ll like.”  
   
“No shit.”  
   
Steve sighs. “I don’t like that language.”  
   
“Really? I don’t give a fuck.”  
   
Steve raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re trying to provoke me. It’s not working.”  
   
“I’m not trying to prov – “  
   
“I know when to pick my battles,” Steve says, with a smile, and Tony feels – irritation, somewhat, although he doesn’t know why. What, like Tony is beneath his notice? “I guess we’ll do something about the language.”  
   
When Steve turns away, he follows, pushes himself into his line of vision. “You should look at me when you talk to me,” he snaps, taking Steve’s arms. “It’s rude to treat me like I’m not _here.”_  
   
Steve gently detaches his hand from his arm. “You want me to notice you?”  
   
Tony frowns. “No! I – well, yes, obviously. Stop pretending like I’m not here – “  
   
“Tony, you’re my submissive. I don’t need to do anything you want, at all.” A beat. “Maybe I don’t care enough to look when you speak, because I don’t think you’re worth it.”  
   
Tony deflates, momentarily. What does that mean? Steve trails his way to the cupboard, starts taking things out and laying them on the chest of drawers. “Wait,” Tony blurts, turning to him. “Wait,” he says, defeated.  
   
“Wait what, Tony?” Steve asks casually.  
   
“I want – I _don’t_ want you to treat me like that.”  
   
“So, what do you want?”  
   
“I want – “ Tony agitates, hops from foot to foot. “I want you to – notice me.”  
   
Steve shuts a drawer with a thump. “You want me to notice you?” He asks carelessly.  
   
“Uh huh. Yes. Please. Stop – I’m sorry.”  
   
How easy was it, for Tony to crumple like a pack of cards? He makes him feel sick, pathetic inside. Is this what life will be like from now on? Chasing a high that only Steve can give? Will he ever be able to stand tall among others, feel rightfully that he belongs, that he can command a room?  
   
Steve looks over his shoulder, disparaging. “We’ll see about that,” he says, and he’s – snapping on gloves, the blue, plastic kind, that you’d wear in a doctor’s office. “Get naked, go into the bathroom. Hands and knees.”  
   
That’s – ominous. “What do you want me to do?”  
   
“I want you to get naked and get on your hands and knees,” Steve says, mildly, with a touch of irritation. “Didn’t you hear?”  
   
Tony thinks, I’m being conditioned. Like a dog. Three days ago, this was beneath him. The idea of even _listening_ to what Steve ordered him to do, let alone crawling around on his hands and knees, was like an affront.  
   
He swore he never would. What’s changed? “You going to punish me?” Tony asks, voice losing its edge.  
   
“Yes,” Steve says simply. “You can’t be allowed to think you can run away with no consequences.”  
   
Tony’s mouth is dry, and he’s stepping out of his pants. “You gonna hurt me?” He tries to ask, but it comes out raspy, without legs. He has to clear his throat.  
   
“Hurt? Not physically. No beating.”  
   
Well that’s fine, then. Tony can take anything that’s not a beating. He puts himself on his hands and knees on the Moroccan tiled bathroom; it’s cold beneath his palms. Clinical. Steve is doing something at the sink, running water. _Please not an enema,_ Tony thinks warily. He’ll fucking die – literally, he’ll just roll over and _die_ – and then Steve will regret it. It’s not like they’ve fucked. Steve isn’t supposed to want to fuck him, not really; he can, if wants, it’s within his rights, but – they haven’t. And they probably won’t.  
   
He hears crinkling, like paper being unfolded. Steve is crouching in front of him, with a glass of water. “Drink some, don’t swallow. Swill it in your mouth, then spit.”  
   
Tony frowns, but it’s harmless enough, so he does. “Open your mouth,” Steve says again. He’s holding a –  
   
Soap. A bar of soap.  
   
Tony recoils. “I’m not putting that in my mouth,” he says, flat out, _no,_ refusing. He’s not a child. He’s not a little boy.  
   
Steve shrugs. “I can put it up your ass,” he says, meaning it. “But I know you’ve never taken anything there, not really. So I don’t really want it to be your first time. But it’s up to you, your choice, Tony: do you want me to put the soap in your mouth, or your ass?”  
   
“Steve – “  
   
“Simple question, one word answer.”  
   
“Neither. I want neither.”  
   
“Work this through with me. Why the resistance?”  
   
“Why the resist – are you fucking kidding me? Why do you think?”  
   
“No more bad language,” Steve says lightly. “Are you scared? Is it the taste?”  
   
“No!” Tony doesn’t give a fuck what it tastes like, it’s the _principle._ “I’m not a _child,”_ he grits out.  
   
“If you act like a child, maybe you’ll be treated like one,” Steve says simply. “I’ve told you not to curse. You’re going to hold that soap in your mouth until I’ve finished pulling you off. If you drop it, you’ll be holding apple cider vinegar and having cold showers until the message sticks. Understand?”  
   
 Tony’s mom used to threaten to wash out his mouth with soap. She never did, because she was kind. Neither did Howard; he thought it was a soft punishment, the kind of thing you gave a little boy, not a teenager, nearly-man, who was ripe for beating. “You won’t,” Tony swears.  
   
“You won’t follow through. You wouldn’t make me. Not if I didn’t want to.”  
   
Steve looks at him, considering. “I don’t know, Tony. Would a parent make their child take a medicine they didn’t like? Or a shot? Sometimes, it’s not about what you like. It’s about what you need.”  
   
Tony looks down, rolls back his hips, groans. He – is hard, he realises, rock hard, aching between his legs. _This is sick,_ he thinks hysterically. _You’re a dom, you’re basically a dom, why are you letting him do this to you and liking it –_  
   
“Clearly, there’s something about this situation you like,” Steve is saying, softly. “Is it because I’m giving you attention? You know that even though you hate it, I’m doing it for you. To make you better. And you love that someone, finally, is sitting down and giving you the attention you need? The attention you deserve?”  
   
Tony looks up, lost. “I deserve it?” He whispers.  
   
“You do,” Steve says, simply. “Open your mouth. Good boy. That’s it. All that fuss, is it even that bad?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. The soap tastes like – soap. It’s small enough to sit on his tongue and not clip his teeth, big enough that his mouth feels full. He mouths starts to foam, which means he has to work on keeping his lips shut to keep it in. _Don’t want the apple cider,_ Tony thinks in that floating, earnest way he gets when he starts to go under.  
   
Steve pumps something onto the latex blue glove of his hand, positions himself by Tony’s side, starts to stroke him off with no preamble. Tony bucks; it’s cold, but the gel is warming, and Steve’s hand is slick with just enough grip. Tony ignores the sensation of being milked, the weird sort of he-doesn’t-want-to-touch-me shame in his gut, ruts into Steve’s palm like an animal.  
   
The more he grunts, and moans, the more the soap froths in his mouth, bubbling and slipping down his chin. It’s tastes grim, like bleach in his mouth, worse than when dad made him drink the bottle of scotch on his fourteenth birthday, or when he had to drain gas with his mouth in Afghanistan. _What would dad say if he could see you now?_ A voice creeps, unbidden, _panting and soaked like the little bitch he knows you are –_  
   
Tony comes, at that. It’s unsatisfying, clinical. Steve is by his head. “Spit it out,” he says.  
   
Tony does. The soap is considerably smaller than when it went in, and Tony lets it drool out, mouth drying at a rapid rate. He wonders if Steve will give him water to swill, but he doesn’t. “You’ve left a mess on the floor,” he says, standing, not even acknowledging him. “Clean it up. Mouth only. Better put that clean tongue to use.”  
   
Tony does. The salty, bitter taste is a welcome distraction from the overwhelming stench of detergent.  
   
Steve swabs about between his cheeks, checking for any errant pieces of soap. Tony thinks, _is that it?_ Is that his punishment? Five minutes with some soap between his teeth and a quick tug? Steve pulls off the gloves, sticky with the scentless lube and his come. “I can’t flush these down the toilet,” he says, “there’s no trash. You’ll have to do.”  
   
He balls them up, and sticks them in Tony’s mouth. He’s starting to think Steve might have a kink.  
   
After that, he’s back on his hands and knees. Steve is doing something behind him. “This came in the pack Ross sent,” he says, conversationally. “They use it in the military on missions. No distractions, understand?”  
   
Steve swabs Tony’s cock and balls with something cold, almost stinging. Anti-bacterial? It makes him flinch, he’s still sensitive. He follows with a powder, then starts to pick up Tony’s ankles, slide something over his legs. “I’m not sure what it’s made off,” Steve says, “you could probably enlighten me. Or Bruce, I guess, I know he’s into this kind of thing.”  
   
Tony feels the straps being pulled over his ass. He feels it cup his cock, and then – that’s all he feels. It’s the strangest sensation, like his groin no longer exists. Steve is strapping it in place, and Tony is – thrusting into air, but nothing’s _happening._ He can’t even tell which way he’s leaning, or if his dick is there at all. It’s like – it’s disappeared.  
   
“Shh,” Steve soothes, “it’s alright. It’s the material. Frictionless. You won’t be able to feel anything there, now, Tony. It’s non-abrasive, you don’t need to worry about sweating or jock-itch. It removes the problem.”  
   
Tony thrusts again, this time frantic. He doesn’t believe him. He sits up, paws at himself; it’s white, made of a thick yet supple, subtle weave. It must be – lined with some kind of polymer, because even as he _touches_ himself he can’t feel –  
   
Tony whimpers.  
   
Steve is washing his hands. “I know,” he says, “it must be really disorientating. But you’ll get used to it in a while. I tried it out,” he admits, “wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing something awful. I got about 24 hours before I couldn’t take it, so… I think two weeks for you.”  
   
Tony pulls at the ties on his hips. It’s like a jock-strap, but more discreet; you wouldn’t know he was caged if you saw him in normal clothes, you might not even notice if he was naked, it’s so smooth, so flat.  
   
“You can still use the toilet, you’ll just have to be sitting down. It’s not that bad. You need to understand, Tony,” Steve says simply, crouching down to shuck his chin. “I’m making the adjustment easier for you, okay? You don’t get to control that part of you anymore, it belongs to us. What happened when you were allowed to control that? What did you do? You pretended to be a dom. You hurt yourself. You hurt others, too. You made mistakes. So it’s out of your hands, now. No more choice.”  
   
Tony clutches at Steve’s ankles. “Please,” he says around the latex, spit, soap, and come in his mouth.  
   
Steve detaches himself, shakes him off gently. “Sorry, Tony,” he says softly. “I told you there would be consequences. Besides, think about how sensitive you’ll be when I take it off.” He dries his hands. “You can stand. I want you to go upstairs, to the kitchen, and put the gloves in the trash. Then, you can get changed, and do whatever it is you were going to do with you day. Except run away, obviously.”  
   
He hates how fair he sounds, how reasonable. He helps Tony stand, smiles at him. “Hands behind your head,” he says. “Punishment ends the second you get those gloves into the kitchen trash.”  
   
Of course, the punishment doesn’t end there. With his hands behind his head, it’s impossible to lift the lid on the can, and there’s no lever. So he has to wait for Sam – finally, forty minutes later – to tips some leftovers in and grab his chance, spitting the nasty, dried up latex into the bag.  
   
The worst part isn’t that he can no longer control his own body, or that people saw him waiting like an idiot. The worst part is, Steve wasn’t even there; if Tony had opened the trash, stuck those damn fucking gloves in himself, no one ever would have known.  
   
But he’d waited anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, I’m completely aware of how utterly dub-con this universe is. I hope it comes across that – okay, fine, while in the context of this universe, Steve & co are probs right that Tony needs discipline and routine for mental health – it’s still super shady. Like, I know Tony loves it, but still: for him, it feels like a massive invasion of freedom. Because it is.
> 
> I have a major exam tomorrow. Send me positive energy, bc i've spent the past week writing not studying.
> 
> But yes. Your thoughts/ideas/prompts/questions are loved. 
> 
> EDIT: fucking hell i posted, deleted, posted, deleted this chapter like ten fucking times this is a mess just -- here
> 
> Tumblr: writingromanoff.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Steve says, meet me in the lounge. Tony thinks, oh great, what will it be this time? Will he have to stand in the corner, like he’s on time-out, hands behind his head? Will he have to let Wilson and Romanoff use his back as a foot-rest? What could it be that he’s done? He  _did_ spend too much time in the lab, yesterday. That’s probably it, Tony thinks.  _Well, in fairness,_ Mr Stockholm Syndrome whispers in his ear,  _Steve did say not to spend more than twelve hours, which is perfectly rational._  
   
“Should I get naked?” Tony asks. It’s late. Normally, Steve doesn’t wait this long to dole out punishment.  
   
Steve snorts. “No,” he says, holding up a box – no, a pack of cards. “Play with me.”  
   
“Play with you.”  
   
“You’re here for me, aren’t you? Consider it one of your duties.”  
   
“Like your little concubine, huh?”  
   
“If you want to think about it that way, sure. Although really, I’m here to show you the error of your ways. Concubine suggests… a conflict of interest.”  
   
“Sit,” Steve says, warmly. “I’m getting a drink. You want anything?”  
   
“Scotch. On the rocks. Obviously.”  
   
“Obviously,” Steve agrees. “Actually, I – kind of had a question for you. If you don’t mind.”  
   
Tony raises a brow. “Titillate me.”  
   
Steve walks over, hands him a drink, takes a seat on the couch opposite. “Before – they found out, about your status, how did you… I mean, what did you to when… if you were upset, or if – “  
   
“To cope.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says, relived Tony could finish the sentence for him. “How did you cope?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder, sips his drink. “What game we playing?”  
   
“Jim Rummy. You know it?”  
   
“Yeah, me and every other fifteen year old. Nothing else?”  
   
“Keep it simple, Tony. I want to talk to you.”  
   
Tony sighs, deals out the cards. “To answer your question,” he heaves, “I would just sort of – I don’t know. I didn’t really. Cope, I mean.”  
   
“But you must have somehow. You’re here, you didn’t – kill yourself, or hurt yourself. So you must have managed something.”  
   
Tony shrugs. “I was raised to be dominant. I was – trained to be. I don’t get weak-kneed when doms look at me the wrong way. When you’re not socialised like that, it’s a different kind of submission.”  
   
“How so?”  
   
“It’s less – it’s less. It’s just less. I graduated earlier than most, so I never took the test through official channels. I got it administer by dad’s doctor which is – definitely illegal, now. He decided to keep it a secret.”  
   
“What happened to the doctor?”  
   
Tony frowns. “I don’t know. He was old. Dead, probably. But because it was never on record, and my dad – you know, technically, you can’t tell till your about sixteen-ish, but – sometimes you can tell before. My parents knew what I was. They tried to protect me from it.”  
   
“Maybe that was the wrong thing to do,” Steve suggests, quietly.  
   
Tony swallows, too hard and too fast. “Mmm,” he says, wincing. “Yeah. I think so. Can’t take it back now, though.”  
   
“I guess,” Steve says, putting down a card and taking another, “what I wanted to know was – did you ever develop any other methods? Of – dealing? And I mean, you had to go under a few times? Really, no one knew?”  
   
“I’m a very good pretender.” A beat. “You know – it’s all a spectrum anyway, right?”  
   
“Right.”  
   
“My little working theory is that it isn’t 1-in-200 men who are submissive. It’s 1-in-20. Like women. But it presents differently, because, you know. Different socialisation.”  
   
“You’re very submissive, Tony.”  
   
He frowns. “What does that mean?”  
   
“It means – did you not see the test?”  
   
“Uh, no, Steve, I was in custody. And it’s not like anyone was ready to debate status sexuality and lib with me inside a holding cell.”  
   
“I’ll get you a copy,” Steve says, casually, because that’s something he can do now. “Makes for interesting reading. You’re – a B16. Do you know what that means?”  
   
Tony is willing to be humiliated, treated like a serf, and scrub floors with a toothbrush. What he will  _not_ abide is being talked down to, or talked to like he’s stupid. “Of course I do,” he bluffs.  
   
Steve can obviously tell he’s lying. “It’s a weird little niche. Less than 0.08% of the population ranks as a B16.”  
   
“Right. Which means…”  
   
“Which means you’re submissive, obviously, and you go deeper than most. You’re characterised by flourishing under a routine, and a love of attention. You’re not – I don’t know the scientific term. You’re not weepy, like most subs, you’re not… scared easily, or trained. Which is what sets you apart. There’s an interesting school of thought that says, the reason B16 is  _so_ rare in nature, is because… it’s not a part of nature.” Steve looks at him, carefully. “It’s more nurture. So if you’re raised a certain way, for instance.”  
   
Tony swallows, looks at his cards. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, stiffly.  
   
“There’s this other thing. B16s are – overwhelmingly – masochistic. They tend to relish the pain, and the challenge. Like I said, you don’t scare easy. But you’re different. Which brings me back to my original question: before you were found out, how did you cope?”  
   
“What’s that got to do with pain?”  
   
“I guess I wanted to know if – if you ever coped in a way that wasn’t healthy,” Steve says, gently. “Or if maybe… you were ever  _made_ to cope in a way that wasn’t healthy.”  
   
Steve is skating on dangerously thin ice. He’s perilously close to making Tony say or do something he doesn’t want to. “Huh,” he says, picking up a card. “I wondered why you don’t ever beat me.”  
   
“I don’t beat you,” Steve says casually, rearranging his deck, “because it doesn’t mean anything to you. You get beaten everyday. You’re a professional punching bag. Once you’ve been  _actually_ tortured, and once you’ve experienced some of the worst pain out there… what’s a couple of swats on the ass?”  
   
“That’s remarkably astute of you,” Tony says, honestly, lips twisted. “And to think, I thought you were all muscle no brain.”  
   
“Cute.” Steve puts down a card, picks up another. “Yeah, so pain doesn’t really mean much to you. Doesn’t mean it can’t be effective, in the right environment. But in general, it’s wasted. You’d just start to resent me.”  
   
“I already resent you.”  
   
“Well, resent me more,” Steve smiles, flicking his eyes to Tony’s.  
   
He accepts that, trading a seven of clubs for a four of spades. So close. “What else have you noticed about me, oh wise and fearless leader? How else are you going to – train me?”  
   
“It’s not training, it’s conditioning.”  
   
“Right. That’s the same thing.”  
   
“No.” Steve sighs, frowns at his deck, picks up a new card. “You’re self-absorbed, Tony.”  
   
“Uh, thanks – “  
   
“It’s not a bad thing. Some people have more ego than others, doesn’t make them  _bad_ people. It just means you like the attention, the accolade.” A beat. “The  _praise.”_  
   
Tony clears his throat, shifts in his seat. “Was it your go, or…?”  
   
“In a dominant,” Steve continues, “we just call it self-obsession, arrogance. But you’re not dominant. So we ask ourselves, why is Tony so – “  
   
“Annoying? Narcissistic? Selfish?”  
   
“I was going to say, egoistic. What is it about Tony that makes him push people’s buttons, monopolize a room – “  
   
“I know what you’re going to say,” Tony mutters, quietly.  
   
“What am I going to say?”  
   
“That I crave the attention. I want to make people angry because I want to be punished. Secretly, I what I want someone to control me, be attentive, give me the routine I crave.”  
   
“Well, it’s not very secret, but sure, that’s a part of it.”  
   
“Only a part?”  
   
“You’re setting yourself up to fail,” Steve explains, placing down his deck. Four threes and an ace of clubs, two of clubs, three of clubs. “I win.”  
   
“Good for you. There’s no skill in this game, anyway.”  
   
Steve smiles, like he knows something. “Want to go again?”  
   
“Obviously,” Tony mutters, shuffling the deck.  
   
“Anyway,” Steve says, taking his cards, “as I was saying. You set yourself up to fail.”  
   
“How so?”  
   
“Because you want to fail. You don’t just crave routine, or attention, or anything else. There’s one more thing, which you would never admit – and so, I’m not expecting you to admit it tonight, either. Early days.”  
   
“And what’s that?”  
   
Steve shrugs. “I don’t spank you when I punish you because that means nothing to you. So if I want to punish you… it’s all in here,” he says, tapping his temple. “You’re 90% mind over body, Tony.”  
   
“Are you capable of speaking in anything other than riddle?”  
   
Steve laughs. “Okay,” he says. “Fine, you got me. You want to be subjugated, Tony, and you want to put up a fight while I do it. You don’t want to think you want it, but you do. And so, to answer your original question, when I punish you, that’s why I don’t beat you. I tell you to get naked and scrub floors, or wash your mouth out with soap. It’s all in your head.”  
   
“You belittle me,” Tony says shortly.  
   
“Yes, I do.”  
   
“What if I don’t want to be belittled?”  
   
“You don’t. No one does. That’s what makes it a punishment. But, like every submissive, you  _crave_ routine, structure, so – “  
   
“I don’t ‘ _crave’,”_ Tony mocks, “anything. Stop putting your janky fantasies on me.”  
   
“You don’t think so?”  
   
“I know so.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, too comfortable, too smug. “C’mon. We both know that’s not true.”  
   
 “All I know is true is – you’re trying to condition me, to be some kind of sex toy.”  
   
Steve sighs. “Shut up,” he says casually.  
   
“What did you just say to me?” Tony spits, affronted, insulted.  
   
“Put the card between your teeth.  _Shut up.”_  
   
“Go to hell,” Tony says, standing.  
   
“Don’t you want to see where I’m coming from?” Steve asks, innocently. “You don’t believe me, fine, but… don’t you want to see what I see?”  
   
Despite himself, his curiosity is piqued. “What do you mean?”  
   
“Put this card between your teeth.” Steve holds it up, between two fingers; the joker. “It’s useless, we don’t even need it for the game. If you win, you take the card out, we finish up, that’s it. If I win, I get to show you what I know you crave.”  
   
“It’s a game of chance,” Tony scoffs. “It doesn’t matter who wins, it’s not about skill.”  
   
“So take a chance.”  
   
Tony feels his left eye twitch.  _Why are you sitting?_ He asks himself hysterically.  _Why are you sitting back down, you lunatic?_  
   
“Good boy,” Steve says quietly. “Here. No more talking, until I win. Anyway,” he continues, watching Tony place the card delicately between his teeth, “as I was saying. You want to be reduced, Tony. All those people, looking up to you, respecting you.” He clicks his tongue, places down a seven of spades. “It must be exhausting.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, raises his eyebrows.  _No,_ he telegraphs,  _not really._  
   
“I’ll bet, you have a special little fantasy. All of them seeing you for what you really are. All those people who rely on you, trust in you. They see you for the little submissive you are – Ross, T’Challa, board at SI. You want them to see you, and you crave it. Being reduced.”  
   
 _Wrong again, Steve._  
   
“You can lie,” Steve shrugs, “you can lie to me, you can lie to yourself. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the truth, not really. I’ve  _seen_ it, now. I’ve seen how you get, when we tell you crawl, like a bad doggy. I know how hard you get when I call you  _it_ and pretend you don’t exist. I don’t know  _why_ you like that kind of subjugation, exactly – that’s between you and your therapist – but you can’t deny it. I didn’t come into this wanting to humiliate you, Tony. That’s all on you. It’s the only thing that seems to work, get deep in there. I don’t know,” he says abruptly, breaking the spell. “Maybe it’s some kind of childhood thing. Maybe daddy didn’t give you enough hugs.”  
   
Steve looks at him. Tony says nothing, does nothing.  
   
“Yeah. Maybe,” he continues. “You’re right. I am conditioning you. Like Pavlov’s dog. Not the way you think, though. I’m not turning you into something you don’t want to be. I’m showing you it’s  _alright_ to be what you are.” He shuffles his cards. “Case and point,” he remarks, jerking his chin, “you haven’t taken a new card the whole time I’ve been talking. I’ll bet your hard under that special little thong, although I know you can’t feel it. I think – “ Steve narrows his eyes, leans closer, “that’s right. You’re going under. I haven’t even done anything to you, and you’ve got pupils as big as a saucer of milk.” Steve smirks. “Do you want to fold?”  
   
Tony drops the card from his mouth. “I win,” he croaks, eyes down, hastily placing his desk on the table.  
   
“Huh. Look at that. You did.”  
   
“I – won. Already, straight away. I told you, it’s chance, you… must not have shuffled the cards properly,” Tony mumbles, quietly.  
   
Steve doesn’t say,  _and you just sat there? Let me spell it out, let me degrade you?_ He doesn’t need to say it. They both already know.  
   
“I could break you, Tony,” Steve says softly. “That’s what Ross wants me to do. Train you. Make you – malleable. Soft. Receptive, a perfect soldier. He thinks, if I have you, because of what happened in Siberia, I’ll break you down.”  
   
There’s a lump in Tony’s throat.  
   
“I don’t want to break you. No one here wants that. We want you to be happy. We want you to be content. Think of us as – therapy, that’s all. We’re here to make you better.”  
   
“Condition me,” he whispers.  
   
“Condition you,” Steve agrees.  
   
   
Tony loved his dad in a way that only someone who craves love can.  
   
If you want someone to love you, you’re blind. So when they beat you, or when they knock you down over, and over, and over, and over –  
   
So long as there’s a scrap of kindness, that hint of affection, you submit yourself. You do it all again.  _Maybe this time,_ you think.  _This time, he’ll smile, or he’ll say ‘good job’, and it’ll stick. I’ll be perfect in his eyes._  
   
Tony’s dad died before he got that.  
   
Steve is different. Tony, if he’s honest, wants his approval, his affection, maybe even his love. He’ll admit this, quietly to himself, and deny it in the morning. But Steve’s rules don’t change; he’s simple, easy-to-follow. If he says, do this, and Tony does it well, the praise is there, easy, sweet. It’s not withheld, or kept over his head. The rules don’t change. He doesn’t pull the rug out from underneath his feet and beat him with it.  
   
Every day, he’ll wake up, and know what to expect. Most days are normal days: breakfast, work, he’ll go to the gym or walk the grounds. Lunch and dinner. They talk about politics and films and laugh more than they should. On the occasions Tony slips up (there are many), Steve is chiding. He explains, this is what you did wrong. It’s not good for you to do this thing for xyz. Therefore, I’m going to punish you.  
   
And he doesn’t  _like_ the punishments; he’s not a masochist, not like some subs. But he tolerates them, learns to accept them. If Tony swears, he’ll get his mouth washed out with soap. Repeat offences means longer. If he spends too long in the workshop, he’ll have to service the team. If he doesn’t take his slot in the chore rota, he does that chore naked.  
   
He hates it. But he loves it, too.  
   
   
He tests boundaries. Can’t help it. Tony isn’t unhappy, but he chafes. It’s an – anxiety.  _Okay, cool, things are fine now, what will they be like in a month’s time? Two? Six? A year?_  
   
Steve is generally good at telling when he’s seriously misbehaving, and when he’s just trying to get a rise. He’ll humor him. When Tony looks him square in the eyes and knocks over a glass of water, purposefully, with intention, he clicks his teeth. “Oh no,” he says flatly, “you’d better clean that with your tongue.”  
   
He never fails him. He never changes the rules. No matter how much Tony hates it, sometimes, rankles against it, Steve remains constant, in control. Piece by piece, little by little, Tony starts to –  
   
Unwind.  
   
   
He doesn’t see Barnes often.  
   
He keeps himself to himself. On the occasions they do meet – some dinners, rarely at breakfast, in the gym – Tony is passingly respectable. He’s supposed to defer to all of them, in principle; fold his hands, wait for them to move before he does, address them as ‘Sir’ etc. He doesn’t, and no one enforces that anyway. So when he does meet him, he’s distant, same as he is with Sam, or Wanda, the one time she stayed the night.  
   
So, they’re in the gym. Tony’s there first, using the machines. He sees Bucky comes in, ignores him, turns up his music. Steve comes in a minute later, smiles at him. Tony smiles back. Focuses on his regime.  
   
After a time, he can hear Steve calling him over. “Tony!” He’s saying, so to be heard over the music. “Come and spot Buck, would you?”  
   
Tony ignores him. That’s the wrong thing to do; even if he had made up an excuse –  _I’m in the middle of something, don’t want to disrupt my flow, I’m not strong enough to stop something from going wrong –_ it would have been better for him. But maybe he’s dropping, slightly, and maybe the thought of being ordered around is too much for him to bear, right now. Especially when it’s Barnes.  
   
Only when it Barnes.  
   
He sees Steve coming over, brows raised. He’s saying something, lower, so Tony can’t hear over his music. After a while, the disrespect Tony’s showing – and the punishment he  _knows_ he’s about to get – is too much. “What?” He snaps, taking out his earphones. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?”  
   
Steve blinks in that placid, unaffected way he has. “I need to take a call. Can you spot Buck?”  
   
“No,” Tony says shortly, “I can’t. I’m doing something. Tell him to wait till you get back.”  
   
‘It’s just a couple of minutes, Tony.” When Tony continues to abduct his thighs, Steve presses closer, talks lower. “Don’t make me say it.”  
   
“Say what?”  
   
“You’re supposed to serve us, Tony. I know we’re easy-going, but Bucky is one of us, whether you like it or – “  
   
“No.”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“N-o.” Tony enunciates, patronising. “I said  _no._ How about that? Wow, I can refuse, who knew.”  
   
“Get off the equipment.”  
   
“Ooh, you going to spank me, Steve? Pull down my sweats and give me a few swats?”  
   
Steve goes round to the front of the machine, holds apart the rubber-coated metal so Tony’s legs can’t close. “Get off the equipment,” he repeats, calmly.  
   
It’s a stand-off, brief, tense. Eventually – careful not to break eye-contact – Tony climbs off. “Happy?”  
   
“Not really. Remind me, what’s your role here Tony?”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything.  
   
“You have a tag on your ankle. What’s that for? Why’s it there?”  
   
“Because I got caught out.”  
   
“Doing what?” When Tony is silent, Steve asks again, warningly. “Doing what, Tony?”  
   
“Pretending to be something I wasn’t,” he mutters, under his breath.  
   
“And what’s your punishment for that?”  
   
“Um, slavery.”  
   
“No, what specifically is your punishment?”  
   
Tony thinks they’ll be here all day if he doesn’t say something. “To listen. Obey. I belong to you,” he bites out.  
   
“So it’s your job to obey,” Steve says, lightly. “And that’s no matter what we ask, whether it’s for you own sake, like leaving the lab, and eating food, or whether it’s for ours, like sometimes helping out on the cleaning rota, and maybe – once, just once – spotting my friend at the gym.”  
   
“For you,” Tony snarls, “ _not_ him.”  
   
“Not him,” he says, quietly. “Why not him?”  
   
“He – he – you know why.”  
   
“Tell me why.”  
   
“Because he killed them!”  
   
A long, dragged out silence. “I’m sorry,” Barnes says, from somewhere behind Steve’s shoulder. “I’m – really, really sorry – “  
   
“Go,” Steve says, sharply. “Bucky, just – don’t. Go.”  
   
“Yeah, fucking  _walk away!”_ Tony screams, pent up with it, aggressive, almost bent double. “Walk away you fucking  _coward!_ You pathetic, weak, sack of – “  
   
He’s muscling forward, held back by Steve. He screams again, this time just in anger, raw, potent. “ _I wish you’d killed yourself!”_ He yells, “I wish you had died before them! Before any of them!”  
   
“Stop,” Steve says, shortly. “Enough.”  
   
“Take his side!” Tony grunts, slapping his hands against Steve’s chest. “You take his side, of course you take his side – “  
   
“There’s no side to take. I can’t have him – punished for something he had no control over. If I punished you for having brown hair, or for tripping over your feet last week, would that be fair?”  
   
“He had a choice! He  _had_ a choice! He could have killed himself rather than kill them!”  
   
“That’s not a choice, Tony.”  
   
Tony slaps him again, and Steve takes his wrists. “Let  _go_ of me – “  
   
“If you act like an animal, I’m going to treat you like an animal,” Steve says coldly.  
   
Tony wants to be free. Tony hates him. He hates the rules, he hates the routine. He wants to be able to chase down Barnes and beat him till his face is bloody –  
   
“The freedom to make bad choices?” Steve snaps. “The freedom to have no consequences? You have freedom,” he says, letting go of Tony’s wrists. “Go. Beat him up. He’ll beat you right back. Better yet, maybe he won’t. Maybe, you’ll actually kill him. And then what? You won’t face consequence for that? You’ll be  _free?_ You’re not talking about freedom, you’re talking about the right to do whatever the fuck you want without consequence, recompense, and anyone telling you no. You are being  _selfish._ You are being  _spoilt.”_  
   
“No,” Tony swears, pulling back. “No, I’m – he killed my mom, he killed my  _dad,_ and no one cares. You all act like it was normal, no one  _cares,_ no one gets punished for it. If I – if I did that, I would get punished – “  
   
“If you were brainwashed, tortured, and forced to put a gun to someone’s head I would take you home, protect you, make sure no one ever touched again, and help you get better. I would  _not_ punish you, not for that. That is – cruel, and bizarre, and unhelpful. Do you want me to punish him? Send him away? I won’t. This is as much his home as it is yours.”  
   
“I don’t get a choice. I’m on house arrest. He’s – “  
   
“Also on house arrest.” Steve pulls himself up to his full height. “Tony, he’s on the same terms as you. He’s not a sub, it’s different for him. But Ross is pulling the same bullshit.”  
   
“Still,” Tony insists. “I – I want – “  
   
“You want what?  _Someone_ to be punished? To take responsibility for what happened?” Steve steps closer. “I think you want to inflict pain, Tony. You’re hurting, I get that, it’s clearly still raw for you. You can’t beat up the whole of HYDRA, and Bucky is here, and he’s soft, and he’s an easy target. You can convince yourself it was his fault, and you can take out some of that anger. Will it help, though? Will it change what happened? Will it bring your mother back? Will it make your father love you?”  
   
“My dad loved me!” Tony blurts. Defensive, on edge. He ducks his gaze, pushes Steve again, as if that will detract from the words. “I – he took away my family – “  
   
“Your safety, your routine. It must have been so scary,” Steve says gently, “knowing what you were, a sub, but thinking you could never show it. The only people who could help you, who would protect you, gone. I know it must have felt – so hard. To be alone in the world like that. But it’s not his fault. I can’t let you blame Bucky – I can’t. It’s unfair, it’s wrong.”  
   
Tony pushes him again, weakly, without force. “I – want – “  
   
“You want?”  
   
“It’s not  _fair.”_  
   
“It’s never fair.” A beat. “Get on the treadmill.”  
   
“Fuck off.”  
   
“Okay, I’ll be washing your mouth out with soap tomorrow morning. Get on the treadmill.”  
   
“What’s the trick?”  
   
“No trick. Get on the treadmill. You’re going to run.”  
   
Tony weighs up whether it’s worth the fight. “Why?” He asks, suspicious.  
   
“Because, it’s senseless. You’re going to run until you can’t run anymore. Alternatively, you can tell me now that you’ve calmed down, you’re sorry, you’re ready for some quiet reflection, and you will apologise to Bucky in the morning.”  
   
“Like fuck I will.”  
   
Steve sighs. “Okay, you’ll be holding that soap for ten minutes. If you want to stop running, let me know, and you can stop.”  
   
“But then I get some time out time and have to write an apology?” Tony sneers. “No thanks.”  
   
“Get on the treadmill,” Steve says calmly.  
   
Tony thinks,  _I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to end this. I will outlast you._  
   
Tony runs for 7 hours, 13 minutes, and 49 seconds.  
   
He could have gone longer, maybe, if he’d paced himself. Towards the end, his feet had turned to lead blocks, and he’d barely been able to pick them up. He finishes because he trips, falls hard on his knees, triggering the halt mechanism. Steve catches him. “Easy,” he says, “steady, Tony.”  
   
Lying back, falling into his arms, Tony – loses the fight, then. He’s tired. Steve is warm. His legs won’t move, but Steve is urging him back up, starting up the treadmill. “No,” Tony slurs, falling over the side. “Don’t want to.”  
   
“You don’t want to anymore?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Can’t.”  
   
“Well alright then. Are you ready for some reflection?”  
   
He nods. He’s so ready. A quiet room, cool sheets, a chance to rest his aching limbs. “Yes, Steve.”  
   
“Can you walk?”  
   
Slowly, he shakes his head.  
   
Steve props his arm over his shoulder, practically carries him up to his bedroom. “One hour,” he tells him. “Don’t sleep.”  
   
It must be early evening. Tony is starving. He’s exhausted. His hands are trembling. “I can’t sleep?” He asks, and it must sound more pathetic than he thinks it is because Steve softens.  
   
“Forty minutes, then,” he says kindly. “Here. Kneel. Don’t lie down if it tempts you.”  
   
Tony loses focus. He doesn’t shut his eyes, he – folds out. He’s so tired.  _It could be worth the punishment,_ he thinks drowsily,  _just to curl up here and sleep._  
  
He can’t remember why he was so angry to begin with.  
   
It’s only forty minutes. If Tony hadn’t fallen, he probably would have kept running another forty minutes out of spite. He clenches his hands into fists, ignores his weak, shaking thighs. Steve said forty minutes. That’s all he has to do.  
   
“Tony,” Steve is saying, quietly. “Tony. Tony.” It’s louder, suddenly, a hand on his shoulder.  _Tony._  
   
He jerks. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he slurs, picking up his head. “I wasn’t… wasn’t…”  
   
“I know. I saw your eyes were open. I brought you food.”  
   
“I can eat?” Tony whispers.  
   
Steve urges him to sit pretzel style, back against the foot of the bed, puts a pillow under his ass so he’s more comfortable. “Soup and some bread. Not too much, I thought it would hurt your stomach. There’s more if you want some.”  
   
Tony rips a chunk of the bread, dips it in the bowl. It’s warm, tomato and spices and red meat of some description. He dips his spoon in, and his hand is shaking so much it spills.  
   
“Shit,” he mutters, “I mean – “ he hastily tries to correct “ – oh no. I – I made a mess – “  
   
Steve gently pats a tissue at the spot on Tony’s sweats. There’s no punishment for swearing, because he didn’t do it on purpose. It slipped out, slurred, and Steve won’t punish him for things he can’t control.  
   
For a moment, Tony thinks he’s going to offer to feed him, but instead he picks up the bowl and holds it closer to Tony’s mouth so there’s less space for the spoon to travel.  
   
When he’s finished, he wants to curl up right there on the floor, while he’s nice and warm and full, but Steve is urging him up. He doesn’t protest. He doesn’t think Steve will hurt him, or make him do anything else. He’s sitting him on the toilet, and running a bath. Pulling off his sweaty, sticky shirt, easing him out of his sweats, even taking off the stupid fucking military-grade cock holster.  
   
“In,” he says, holding Tony hands as he sits himself in the warm, soapy water. “Head back.”  
   
He washes Tony’s hair, sweat-logged as it is. He scratches his nails gently across his scalp. Tony thinks there might be more; he can’t remember if he falls asleep, or just slinks so far under he loses time. Either way, he doesn’t have a recollection of being folded into a soft robe and finally, blessedly, being put to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your thoughts keep me writing! there was some REALLY interesting discussion in the comments last time -- i don't have time to respond right now because i'm studying, but it's absolutely fascinating to hear what you think!
> 
> I really want to know how steve is coming across? does he seem cruel? benevolent? does he have tony's interests at heart? i mean, i know the answer, but i want to know what you think !!


	4. Chapter 4

Tony is so sweet when he’s under.  
   
The artifice melts. The neuroses, and the panic, and the tension he holds with him at all times. In the bath, under Steve’s hands, he slips away, mild and safe.  
   
See, this is what Steve wants from him. The humiliation, the punishments, the routine, it all leads to this: Tony, soft, pliable, taken out of his head. The structure is this: actions have consequences, always. If you’re bad, the consequences are bad. If you’re good, the consequences are good. But there will _always_ be cause and effect, negative and positive outcomes. Tony needs to know this. He _needs_ to know this.  
   
More than that, he needs to know that he shouldn’t fear the negative outcomes. Steve will never hurt him past what he can handle. He will humiliate him. He’ll degrade him. He’ll make him regret his action, give him what he secretly craves: to be reduced, and taken out of his brain. To have all that pressure, that angst, and pain, and weight, taken away. Put on someone else’s shoulders. Reduced to a question of good and bad, right or wrong.  
   
“Tony,” Steve urges. “Up. C’mon, you’re done. You’re all clean.”  
   
“I’m good?” He slurs. “I’m good for you? Was good for you?”  
   
“You were,” Steve assures him. “You were so good for me. A good boy, a very good boy.”  
   
Tony ducks his head. “Thank you,” he mumbles, letting Steve wrap him in the robe. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t good before.”  
   
“That’s okay,” Steve says simply, steering him to the bed. “You didn’t know how to be.”  
   
“I’m so tired,” he says, voice small.  
   
“Which is why you need to sleep.”  
   
And he does. Easily, peacefully. Steve picks up the pillows and cleans up the plates, waits for Tony’s breathing to even out entirely. And when he’s under – really under – he leaves.  
   
   
This isn’t what Steve wanted.  
   
He doesn’t blame Tony for feeling differently. Still, let the record show: this isn’t what Steve wanted.  
   
When Ross had Tony interred, what was Steve supposed to do? He had two choices: become Tony’s guardian, or let someone else become Tony’s guardian. They’re Avengers. They like to keep it in the family. And there’s no saying what would happen if people found out that Tony had been lying about his designation. Worse than that, if Ross had said him to Nevada to belong to some kind of military general like he threatened to do…  
   
Tony is so sweet when he’s under. Not all subs are. It’s not a given. Tony, though? God. He’s happy to just rest his head on your knee, like a lapdog. What makes you happy makes him happy. He loves the praise, Steve has learnt. He just wants to be a good boy. He wants to feel like he’s done well. Like he’s valued. Like he’s wanted.  
   
They wouldn’t have tolerated that in Nevada. They would have stripped it from him, beaten it out of him, turned him into a whipping post. The military doesn’t tolerate innocence, or sweetness, not in the way Tony has it. They want their subs to be impregnable. Rightfully so, maybe; innocence has no place on the battle field. But Tony needs guidance, and shaping. He doesn’t need to be taught to be ashamed of what he is, like other people have taught him.  
   
The thought of him, under and vulnerable, desperate for praise that isn’t forthcoming, crawling and pleading and trying his damn hardest for some uptight, sadistic, machismo-ridden dom who gets his rocks off through borderline torture – no. It wasn’t really a choice, at the end of the day. Tony had to be with Steve. Tony had to come home.  
   
He was intimately aware of what this meant for their already rocky relationship. He wasn’t sure Tony would ever come to forgive him, not really. He certainly knew that Tony wouldn’t be _grateful;_ would you be, to your captor? A kind jailor is still a jailor. Hell, an unwilling jailor is still a jailor. Just because Steve has good intentions doesn’t change the reality for Tony.  
   
Still, he’s gone out of his way to make sure Tony feels accommodated. He _tries_ to give him continuity, to ensure that life hasn’t changed drastically, short of the tag on his ankle and the fact he can’t leave HQ grounds. Here’s some truth: if Tony turned around, today, tomorrow, next week, in a month, and said ‘Steve, I can’t take this. I can’t do this. Please, let me go’, Steve would.  
   
He would. He refuses to be Ross’s guard-dog. He knows what Ross is doing, playing them against each other, putting Steve in a position where Tony hates him, resents him. If Tony truly didn’t want it, wanted to escape, start again, then Steve would help him. He would break the tag on his ankle. He would distract Ross as long as it took for him to flee, damn the consequences.  
   
But Tony hasn’t said that. Never has he said, or even suggested, that he might want to run away. Short of his boundary breaking exercises, he accepts rule, he accepts regulation. He chafes, but he enjoys the limits. Steve doesn’t think Tony will ever turn around and ask to run, because secretly, deep down, Tony _knows_ he likes it. He knows what he wants. He relishes the control. The liberty that comes with freedom from.  
   
Case and point: come morning, Tony is tetchy. He’s dropping, again. Steve wants to break the negative cycle; he was dropping when he snapped at Bucky, too. So he puts Tony in a collar and has him stand, hands behind his head, facing the corner. After an hour, he gives him a choice. You can stay in the corner, or you can come sit with me, and I’ll stroke your hair, and make you some of Bruce’s tea.  
   
Tony puts on a show of resistance. “I can stand here all day,” he blusters.  
   
“Well, when you no longer want to, I’ll be in the kitchen. You can stand there as long as you want, Tony.”  
   
And fourteen minutes later, while Steve is sat reading the paper on the couch, Tony slinks in. He’s not under enough to be blatant, he’s not under enough to have lost some of his edge. He makes a big show arranging himself on the couch, like it’s about _his_ comfort, like he _owns_ this moment. And when he’s finally done, he’s resting with his head in Steve’s lap, avoiding his eyes, but with a look on his face like a sneer. “There,” he says, “you happy now?”  
   
“You could have stayed in the corner,” Steve says, simply. He strokes Tony’s hair, as promised, and out of respect doesn’t point it out when Tony softens, nuzzles his head against Steve’s belly, mouth slack and eyes hazed.  
   
   
“I wanted to say sorry,” Tony murmurs, hands folded, head down, knees shoulder-width apart. “The way I acted was – inexcusable. I was dropping, and I think I just… lost sight, for a moment. But again, I apologise sincerely.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Barnes says, voice thick. He clears his throat. “Seriously, it’s – it’s fine. You didn’t have to do this.”  
   
Tony doesn’t know if he’s addressing that last part to him, or Steve, who’s standing at his shoulder. He touches him, now, on the top of the head to remind him to keep going.  
   
“It wasn’t you I was angry at,” Tony says, honestly. “It’s been a hard adjustment for me. I – misplaced my frustrations. I hope you can forget the way I acted.’  
   
“Already forgotten,” Barnes mumbles, awkwardly.  
   
“Thank you,” Tony says quietly. “If I could… service you, in any way,” he adds (this wasn’t part of the script), “if I could show my appreciation…”  
   
“That won’t be necessary. Stark. Tony, I mean.”  
   
 He sits back on his heels, looks up at Steve. _Did I do okay?_  
   
Steve rests his hand in his hair, scratching his nails over his scalp. “Thank you, Buck. And thank you, Tony. Both of you, for coming to an agreement.”  
   
He did okay. He feels warmth, sticky and seeping in his belly, when Steve lightly runs his fingers through his hair. He did good. He did right.  
   
   
Tony had been brave, offering himself to Bucky like that.  
   
Steve won’t lie; he finds it hard to read him, sometimes. In the gym – it’s possible he’d overstepped. But the intention had been to introduce Tony to Bucky in a way that was non-threatening, helpful; if Tony wasn’t a sub, spotting a teammate in a gym would be an expected, normal thing. He concedes that, adjusting for new dynamics, it must have scared him. The thought that Bucky could control him, maybe, in a way Tony never can.  
   
Still. Nowhere in the apology had Steve recommended he offer himself. Even he’s aware that such a thing is… far off. He wouldn’t force Tony to do that, he wouldn’t even _suggest_ it, yet offer he did, anyway. Why? Did he think it would make Steve happy? Because it did. It reassures him, that Tony feels so… open, to his instruction. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s because Tony didn’t need to offer himself, but he did anyway, because he knew it would make Steve happy.  
   
It’s a step forward, at the very least.  
   
Tony is stubborn. Even if he hadn’t spent twenty years pretending to be a dom, he would be stubborn; it’s in his nature. It can be a good thing, sometimes. It means he’s tenacious. It means he’s persistent. It also means, he’s set in his ways. He doesn’t really value the counsel of others. He struggles with trust.  
   
Despite what he thinks, Steve knows him well. It’s the same reason he doesn’t spank him, doesn’t whip him, never pushes him beyond what he can muster. Tony likes to think he’s in control, even when he’s not; the thought of being without it terrifies him. Steve’s job is to show him how to trust. It’s to rewire him. Condition him, until he folds easily, gladly.  
   
“That’s was – brave of you,” Steve says that night, after dinner, helping Tony wash up by drying the plates. “Earlier, I mean. When you offered yourself to Bucky.”  
   
“Was it?” He asks, mildly. “Kind of seemed like something you’d enjoy.”  
   
“I did. Did you do it for me?”  
   
“Sure. Why not? I want you to go easy on me, don’t I?”  
   
So Tony is either trying to manipulate him, or he really does want to be good for Steve, and is starting to realise it. “What would you have done though? If he had said yes?”  
   
Out the corner of his eye, Steve sees Tony flinch. “I would have serviced him, I guess.”  
   
Steve sighs. “Tony, I – don’t want you agreeing to do things if they make you unhappy.”  
   
“All of this makes me unhappy.”  
   
_Does it? Really?_ “I know. But within the realms of what we can control. If you don’t want to service Bucky, then don’t offer it. It doesn’t make me happy to think that you would upset yourself just to please me.”  
   
A long, tense silence. “Fine,” Tony says, shortly. “Fine.”  
   
Steve frowns. “Tony, I – “  
   
“I said fine, didn’t I? Fine. I won’t try to make you happy, Steve.”  
   
“That’s not what I said.”  
   
“Sounded like it.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says softly, “I just don’t want you to push yourself too hard.”  
   
“Right. Like submission is hard. Stop trying to – coach me. It’s pathetic,” Tony says, scathingly, “like I could _push_ submission too hard. What the fuck? There’s nothing hard about submitting, Steve. If anything, it’s easy. The easy option. For people who are too weak to fucking stand up and fight.”  
   
There’s too much to unpack. Steve files, _language,_ in the back of his brain. He files, _insubordination._ He files, _denigration of self,_ and most importantly, he files _he’s upset with me. I’ve upset him._ “Who told you that?” He asks casually.  
   
Tony’s lip twitches, hands in the warm, soapy water. “No one,” he mutters, “it’s just common sense.”  
   
“Submission isn’t easy for you though, is it?”  
   
Tony says nothing, scrubbing at a plate with a metal scourge.  
   
“Tony,” Steve prompts, gently. “Is submission easy for you?”  
   
“Maybe it is,” he blurts. “Pathetically easy. Like I was born for it.”  
   
“You were born for it. It’s in your DNA, Tony.”  
   
“Yeah, well – I should be better. I should be stronger. It makes me stronger, if I’m able to fucking fight it, not like – like any other submissive idiot. Little idiots,” he says fiercely, scrubbing at a plate with mild violence, “go willingly like lambs to slaughter.”  
   
“You’re not an idiot,” Steve says, mildly. “I’ve upset you, I can tell. Please tell me why.”  
   
Tony flinches. “I’m not upset,” he snaps.  
   
“You are. Is it because I told you not to push yourself too hard? I stand by that what you did was brave, Tony. I know how much submission scares you, and to offer it to Bucky – “  
   
“It doesn’t scare me.”  
   
File: _interruption._ “ – was impressive. It showed real dedication on your part.”  
   
“You said it didn’t make you happy,” Tony says tersely. “Well, I tried to make you happy. I tried. And you said I didn’t. So I don’t know, now. What makes you happy? I made a mistake. I did it wrong, I’m not good, I’m not – I can’t be good dominant, I can’t even be a good submissive, and it’s supposed to be easy – “  
   
“Who told you it was supposed to be easy? Why do you think that?”  
   
“Because it’s _pathetic,”_ Tony spits, “it’s a pathetic way to exist, that’s why. It will always be easier to bend over or to let someone beat you rather than fight back. But I can’t even do it right, the easiest, shittiest thing in the world, and I’m fucking useless at it. I’m fucking _useless,_ I’m _useless.”_  
   
This alarms him. “Tony,” he says gently, touching his arm, “you’re not useless. And you didn’t upset me. It _does_ make me happy that you want to try your hardest, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” A beat. “You _are_ a good bo – “  
   
Tony brings the plate in his hands down hard on the edge of the sink. It cracks, shatters, broken on the ground. “Don’t call me that!” He snaps, “Don’t you fucking call me that! I’m not your _good boy,_ I’m not some kind of dog, don’t _call me that!”_  
   
Steve turns off the faucet. He dries his hands. “Don’t touch it,” he says calmly when Tony starts to bend. “Move back. I’ll tidy it up.”  
   
“No,” Tony mutters, trying to push him away, “I’ll – I’ll do it, I said _I’ll_ do it, stop it, just let me – “  
   
Steve doesn’t want him touching sharp things in this state. “It’s alright,” he reassures. “You mop up the water on the counter. Watch out for shards.”  
   
He doesn’t baby him, because he knows Tony doesn’t want to be babied right now. He picks up the pieces of what was once a plate and dumps them in the trash, sweeps up the remaining shards and throws them away. Tony is standing, tense, defensive, like he’s trying to decide whether Steve is about to use the broom to beat him. “I’m not going to apologise,” he says, the first thing out of his mouth.  
   
“Okay,” Steve reasons, “I don’t expect you to.”  
   
“You gonna spank me?” Tony sneers. “You gonna put me over your knee? Make me – make me stand on the table? Take away my clothes? Lock me in the – “ his voice falters “ – lock me in the food cupboard?”  
   
“Do you want me to?”  
   
“No!”  
   
“Then I won’t. Go,” Steve jerks his chin, “I’ll finish up in here.”  
   
Tony looks for the trick. “I don’t understand,” he says shortly.  
   
“I’m not trying to catch you out, Tony,” Steve says tiredly. “I’ll talk to you before bed. We’ll work it out, alright?”  
   
Tony opens his mouth, as if to say something. He closes it. He leaves.  
   
   
When Steve finds him, he’s kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, hands tightened into fists, head bowed.  
   
“Get up,” Steve says, softly.  
   
Tony chances a glance upwards. “I thought – is this not what you want?”  
   
“How long have you been kneeling there?”  
   
“Since you told me to go,” Tony croaks.  
   
Steve holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Tony takes it, stands, wincing. “It’s been three hours.”  
   
“I didn’t know when you would come. I – I hope you see,” Tony says woodenly, “I’m very, very sorry for how I acted earlier, in the kitchen. It will never happen again. So you don’t have to – hurt me, tonight.” He won’t meet Steve’s eye. “As you can see,” he repeats, “I’m sorry. I’ll do anything you ask. I hope you can forgive me.”  
   
“You practice that much?”  
   
“Thought about it for the last three hours,” Tony dead-pans, without humour.  
   
“Sit,” Steve says, jerking his chin. “Go on. Look, I brought a treat.”  
   
Steve wouldn’t usually authorize alcohol at a time like this, but it’s important Tony knows he’s being treated like an equal. He sets out two crystal glasses, pours two scotches, neat. Holds it out; a symbol of peace.  
   
Tony takes it. Sips. “Thanks,” he mutters, wincing, hand on his back.  
   
“If you kneel, you should use a pillow.”  
   
“Yeah. I figured that about four minutes in, but I thought – what if he comes, and sees me not kneeling?”  
   
“Why did you think I wanted you on your knees anyway?”  
   
“I didn’t. I just thought – I should look repentant.”  
   
“Well,” Steve sighs, “you will be punished, for what it’s worth.”  
   
Tony’s hand tightens on the glass. “I figured,” he mumbles, looking down.  
   
“I won’t hurt you,” Steve says, softly. “Tony, all these weeks – have I ever hurt you?”  
   
“First time for everything. You’ve hurt me before,” he adds.  
   
“You’re my ward, now. It’s different.”  
   
“I wish it wasn’t,” he says quietly, and Steve doesn’t know what that means.  
   
“Let’s start at the start,” Steve sighs, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It’s intentional; Tony is perched on the bed, above him, so Steve doesn’t seem like a threat. “I upset you, earlier. I’d like you to tell me why.”  
   
Tony sips. “I tried to make you happy. It cost me a lot to say that to Barnes. You told me it didn’t make you happy. Ergo, I feel like an idiot.”  
   
“Why’d you try to make me happy?”  
   
A beat. Tony shrugs. “Why not?” He mumbles.  
   
“You know, I wasn’t – unhappy with what you did. I just want to make sure that you wouldn’t make yourself do something that really upset you, just to please me. Or manipulate me.”  
   
Tony shoots him a glare. “I thought I was supposed to do everything you said? Even if it makes me upset?”  
   
“No. You’re not.”  
   
“You made me spot for Barnes.”  
   
“I misjudged. I’m sorry.”  
   
Tony seems taken aback. “But you punished me for it.”  
   
“I saw that you needed help clarifying things. I made you run. After, you realised it wasn’t Bucky you were angry at, really, was it?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t.”  
   
“So, in that same way, I’m going to clarify things for you. I will punish you. The mistake you make is thinking that I punish you for the sake of it. Like – I enjoy hurting you, or you deserve pain for making a mistake. I punish you to make you understand. To clarify, sometimes, or to – help you.”  
   
Tony sips. He says nothing.  
   
“Earlier,” Steve continues, “you said that submission was easy, like that was a bad thing. You said that submissives were idiots. Do you really think that?”  
   
“Steve – “  
   
“Do you?”  
   
“Yes,” Tony admits, “slightly. They are, aren’t they?”  
   
“Are _you_ an idiot?”  
   
“When I’m submitting? _Yes._ It’s utterly humiliating. I’m – not myself. At all.”  
   
“It shouldn’t be humiliating for you,” Steve says softly, “why do you find it humiliating?”  
   
“Because. I’m Tony Stark. I’m Iron Man. I have – too many things. Pressures, I don’t know. It’s embarrassing to drool over you, or ask to be petted, or be walked like a dog.”  
   
“No,” Steve says carefully, “it’s embarrassing to be punished. That’s usually the point. It shouldn’t be – humiliating to submit, Tony. To enjoy it. To want to please, or to crave it. Why do you feel submission is such a bad thing? Who _told_ you that submission was such a bad thing?”  
   
“Stop it,” Tony mutters.  
   
“Stop what?” Steve asks, genuinely bewildered. “What’s the matter, what have I said?”  
   
“No one told me anything,” he lies. “I just – look, stop it. Just stop trying to pretend that submission is this great thing, that it makes me special, that I should love it, whatever. Just stop.”  
   
Steve decides it’s now or never. “Tony,” he says, so, so gently. “When you were growing up – or even after – did anyone ever – did they take advantage of you, or – “  
   
“No.”  
   
“What I mean is – sexually, did anyone ever – “  
   
“ _No._ Didn’t you just hear me? No, no one ever,” he mocks. “What, seriously? You thought I’d been diddled?”  
   
“You have some strange notions about submission, Tony. Sometimes it sounds like you’re quoting. Like what you’re saying isn’t coming from the heart.”  
   
“Oh, it’s from the heart alright.”  
   
“And earlier, when I called you good boy, and you broke the plate. That wasn’t because I – triggered you, was it?”  
   
“No, Steve. I just don’t need to be spoken to like a dog.”  
   
“But Tony – you said it upset you because you thought I was unhappy. So I tried to show you I was happy with you, that’s all. You liked it last night – “  
   
“Don’t.”  
   
“You wanted me to call you ‘good boy’, then. You asked me, am I a good boy? And I told you yes,” Steve says earnestly, “because you are. Because I can see you’re trying so hard.”  
   
“I don’t want to be your good boy. I want to be Tony Stark. Stop patronising me – “  
   
“Jesus, Tony, I’m not patronising you, you just admitted there’s a part of  you that wants to make me pleased – “  
   
“I don’t. I don’t want to make you anything, I don’t think about you, any of you,” Tony says frantically. “I’m not submissive, I’m just _not,_ I’m Tony Stark. I don’t need this, I don’t need any of you, I’m not some pathetic, desperate sub – “  
   
“Stop.”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“Just stop, Tony. Go and take a shower, then meet me here. Calm yourself down, if you can.”  
   
“I _can,”_ Tony insists.  
   
“Good. Do that. We’ll discuss punishment.”  
   
   
Two mittens, chained together. Supple, brown, aged. Tony doesn’t understand, at first. Then, he does.  
   
“You’re taking away my hands,” he says.  
   
“Yes. For two days.”  
   
“Steve – “  
   
“Alternatively,” Steve says, “I ban the workshop for the next week. But to be honest Tony, I don’t want to do that, and I don’t think you want to do that, either.”  
   
Tony is shaking his head. “No,” he says, “you can’t take my hands.”  
   
“Okay. Can you tell me why?”  
   
“What, like you’ll care?”  
   
“If you can give me a really good reason, I’ll re-consider.”  
   
“I – can’t protect myself,” Tony blurts. “Not without hands. Not against any of them.”  
   
“You know we’d never hurt you.”  
   
“Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t be able to – no. No, I’m not doing it. No. _No._ No, I can’t – “  
   
“Shh,” Steve soothes, cupping his cheek. “Tony. It’s alright. Let’s work around it. What could I do to make this easier? What would make this easier for you?”  
   
“Really?” Tony croaks. “You mean that?”  
   
“Absolutely. Tell me, what would make you feel more safe?”  
   
Tony is – covering Steve’s hand with his own. “Just you,” he says.  
   
His heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?” He asks, hiding his – hiding.  
   
“I’ll wear them. The anklets, too. Just you, though. Not the main floor. Not with the rest of them.”  
   
Oh. Steve considers. He decides making Tony feel comfortable is worth more than the lesson that would be learned from having him naked and helpless in front of everyone. “Okay,” he agrees, easily. “They won’t see you. Not once. You have my word.”  
   
Tony is narrowing his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”  
   
“I do. I’ll tell them I’m taking a break for two days, and you’re going to be with me, and under no circumstances are we to be disturbed. Except in an emergency,” Steve adds, “in which case they’ll need to call ahead.”  
   
Tony – visibly relaxes. “You mean it,” he seems to realise, taking back his hand. “Okay. Phew. Okay. Okay. Maybe this can work.”  
   
Steve holds out his hand. “Here,” he says, taking Tony’s wrist, sliding on the first mitt. “Do you know why I’m doing this?”  
   
“To own me. To humiliate me.” A beat. “You want me to understand,” he adds, softer.  
   
“That’s right. What do I want you to understand? You can think about the answer, there’s no rush. And don’t worry, it doesn’t have to be right.”  
   
Tony considers. “You want me to understand,” he says slowly, looking at his hand being clipped away, shackled. “Understand that – if I’m dependant on you, it’s okay. And that if I’m vulnerable, I can trust you. And that – there’s no shame in it. Although there is.”  
   
“There isn’t,” Steve presses, taking the other hand. “There’s no shame in your nature. You were made this way, and there’s nothing wrong with showing it, embracing it, indulging it.”  
   
“That’s not what he said,” Tony mumbles.  
   
“What, Tony?”  
   
He looks up, frowning, testing the bite of the chain between the mitts. “What happens if I need to use the bathroom?”  
   
“You can come to me, I’ll help.”  
   
“You’re a pervert, you know that?” Tony sneers.  
   
“If that’s what you want to think,” Steve says calmly. He considers him, thumbs Tony’s lower lip. “Open up,” he says.  
   
Tony does, even if he stares daggers the whole time Steve fucks his mouth casually, without purpose. “Tomorrow,” Steve tells him, while Tony’s drool slips down his chin, “I’m going to have to wash your mouth out with soap, you know that, right?”  
   
When Tony doesn’t respond, he slides his hand out of his mouth, grips his chin. “Tell me, you understand,” he says calmly.  
   
“You have to wash my mouth out with soap,” Tony spits, “because I was a bad bitch who used naughty words.”  
   
“You were," Steve notes, raising a brow. "Do you need help taking off your sweats?"

"No," Tony snaps, awkwardly pawing at them with his covered hands. "I can do it just fine, thanks."

"If you insist."

"I do."

Steve shackles his ankles, then. It's got enough slack that he won't trip over his feet, but short enough that it's really preferable to crawl. The collar is the same shade of brown, thin, almost delicate, but supple and soft so it won't chafe Tony's throat. Tony eyes it warily, but accepts it all the same. If he balks at the lead, he doesn't show it.

So this is where he ends up: hands covered and chained, ankles shackled, tied to the bed by a leash. On all fours, he pulls the lead, as if testing it's give, back arching as he tries to tug away. "Sure," Steve says fondly, "try it out. Entertain yourself all night that way if you like."

He's settling down onto the couch at the end of the bed; Tony strains to see him. "What are you doing?" He asks.

"Well I'm not going to leave you to choke to death, am I? What if you need to use the bathroom in the night?"

"Again, you're a pervert, this is your fetish."

"I'll take off the gloves, Tony. I don't want to wipe your ass any more than you want me to."

"Well that's a relief." A beat. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Sleep?" Steve suggests, settling himself down and flicking through his phone. He starts a text to Natasha, warning her that he and Tony will be occupied for the next two days. 

"You're going to sleep there?" Tony shuffles down the bed on his hands and knees, is stopped short by the lead. "What about -- you look like you're squished. You barely fit."

"I've slept on worse, but your concern is touching."

"You wouldn't sleep in the bed?"

"What, and have you take the couch?" Steve says, deliberately misunderstanding. "I don't think so. Go to sleep, sweetheart."

Tony doesn't talk after that. For a long time, Steve purposefully doesn't look his way, thinking that he's still perched near the end of the bed, staring daggers. But when he does eventually turn, he sees that Tony has slept where he's fallen, curled on top of the covers, one hand reaching out, as if in need, or in comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so:
> 
> First thing, go and read [Enfold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14658390#main) by swallowingstorms, which is set in this universe and PERFECTLY in character and AMAZING and has almost literally predicted scenes I will be writing later on in this story, again, PERFECTLY
> 
> Secondly, I feel like this has come up a lot but please, please, please if this story is not your thing, do not read it. I can't control what you read, but I can tag and I can warn, and I HAVE. So please, if you do not heed the warnings and then decide to comment that you hate this story because it's dub-con and unhealthy and wrong and sick and bad and any other word, I can't stop you, but recognise that this can be really disheartening to read when you put something out there. I know this story is all those things, but I like writing it, and I can't control whether you choose to read it.
> 
> Thirdly: what do you think of Steve's POV? Does it give an interesting perspective? There was some FASCINATING meaty comments on the last chapter which are always an absolute joy to read. If I wasn't studying, I would love to get into a real discussion!


	5. Chapter 5

As always, Steve gives him a choice. “I can feed you,” he says, calmly, “or you can eat like a dog. What will it be?”  
   
 Tony thinks, if Steve feeds him, he’ll think he’s agreeing. It’ll make him complicit in his own degradation. So on principle, he sneers, he says, “oh please make me eat like dog,” and Steve shrugs, cuts up his food, and puts it on the kitchen floor by his feet.  
   
He can refuse to eat it. It’s scrambled eggs with cut up slices of bacon, pancake, topped with syrup. “This is disgusting,” Tony spits, “I hate my food touching.”  
   
“Okay,” Steve responds, not really looking at him, just flicking through his tablet.  
   
That irritates him. “Steve,” he says, wrapping the chain around his ankle and pulling. “Did you hear me? It’s fucking disgusting.”  
   
“Well,” Steve says, still _not looking at him, just look at him,_ “we can skip breakfast and go straight to the soap if you like.”  
   
Tony eats the food.  
   
   
The soap is green, of the dishwashing variety. Tony’s nose wrinkles, he strains away. “Open up,” Steve is saying calmly, pumping two loads onto his fingers. “Tongue out. Hands behind your head. That’s it,” he croons, softly, warm. “I know it’s disgusting, Tony. I’m sorry. Here,” he holds the back of Tony’s head with his hand, “this will help.”  
   
He smears it on Tony’s tongue, swabs it between his gums and his cheeks, the roof of his mouth. Tony chokes, gags on his fingers, eyes watering, the bitter, anti-septic taste overwhelming. “It’s alright,” Steve tells him gently, wiping his cheek. He’s – not crying, what the hell? It’s just the taste, the smell, it makes his tear ducts play up –  
   
Steve is filling a glass with water. “Drink, hold it in your mouth,” he commands mildly. “Swill it about, that’s it. Now hold it. Thirty minutes.”  
   
Tony won’t be able to hold his mouth closed like this for thirty minutes. Already his jaw is aching, the muscles in his cheeks twitching. He shakes his head. “Mm mm,” he tries to say; some of the soapy liquid tickles the back of his throat, and he swallows reflexively; he gags on it, choking, and then he’s spitting it out, letting it spill down his chin.  
   
Steve sighs. “I’m sorry,” Tony croaks, before he can stop himself. “I’ll do it again, I’ll do it better.”  
   
“I know you will,” Steve reassures, but Tony isn’t sold. He’s disappointed him. He’s done it wrong. He needs to be better, to be perfect. If he’s going to be submissive, he wants to do it right. “Let’s make it easier,” Steve accommodates, “down on your hands and knees. Oh, that’s it, good boy, see? No, there there, Tony, you don’t need to be upset.”  
   
He isn’t crying, but his throat feels thick and his eyes prickly. “Don’t make me do something I can’t do well,” he rasps, “I want to do it well.”  
   
“You are going to do it well. And if you can’t, that’s okay. Sometimes, that’s the point, to fail, and see that failure is okay too. Now,” he says calmly, squirting the soap back into Tony’s willing, open mouth, helping him swish the water around his cheeks, “you keep looking at the floor, and then it’ll be easier not to swallow.”  
   
It is easier. Gravity makes it easier. Tony clenches his hands inside the gloves, perched on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor while Steve goes up clearing up their breakfast. When he’s done, he just sits the table, gently stroking Tony’s hair while he trembles through his punishment.  
   
As always, things get slow.  
   
Tony has been under enough now to recognise the signs, to know not to fight it. It’s a slow building wave, washing over him. His mind pares down. His body relaxes. He thinks, _Steve’s hand feels nice,_ and _this soap tastes bad,_ and _I’m being good._ These three physicalities are all that matter; his brain hasn’t got room for anything else.  
   
When it’s done, it’s done. Steve urges him to spit into a bowl, wash out of his mouth with good, clean water. He brushes Tony’s teeth to get the worst of the taste from his mouth, but from experience Tony knows it will linger for a while. It’s better than when Steve washes his mouth with the soapy rag, worse having to hold a bar of soap between his teeth. It’s in the middle.  
   
When his mouth is clean, he gets down on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he says, face against the floor, “I’ll never use bad words again.”  
   
“Why not?” Steve asks, softly.  
   
“Because it’s bad,” Tony croaks, “I don’t want to be bad for you.”  
   
“What do you want to be?”  
   
“Good,” Tony whispers. “I want to be good.”  
   
“Because?”  
   
“Because… because…” Tony lips are loose. He can’t think. “Because I want you to think I’m good. I want you to trust me. I want to feel safe. I want you to like me.”  
   
Steve is pulling on the leash, dragging up his head. Crouching, he shucks Tony’s chin. “Now, you listen to me,” he says warmly. “I _do_ think you’re good. You know why? Because you try, Tony. This is so, so hard for you, and you’re still trying.”  
   
He nods. “I am,” he whispers, earnestly, “I’m trying so hard.”  
   
“And so when you fail, that doesn’t mean you’re bad. Because you tried, and that’s all that matters.”  
   
Tony’s face breaks out in a smile. He believes him. He now believes that Steve means it, that all he has to do to be good is try. Steve walks him on the lead, which should be humiliating, but it doesn’t feel humiliating. It feels like he’s owned, in a good way. Like someone cares about him enough to keep him safe, and close.  
   
   
Steve had tied the lead to the leg of the coffee table and Tony had spent most of the morning sleeping on the floor, blanked out, peaceful. Occasionally, Steve will prod him with his foot, and Tony will play with it, suck his toes, lick his sole, nibble at his ankle, content to just taste Steve and lie where he belongs, at his feet.  
   
As the day wears on, and he stays under, he begins to sink deeper. Words mean less. He lies on his back and blinks hazily at the ceiling. He wonders why this he ever thought this – this state of complete and utter tranquillity – was ever a bad thing. At lunch, he lets Steve spoon-feed him Greek yoghurt with nuts and berries and honey. “You’re making me healthy,” he giggles to himself, drunk on the attention, and Steve fondly dabs the yoghurt away from his chin.  
   
He tells him he has work to do, so Tony will need to be quiet and sit at his feet. Tony loves it. Sitting at Steve’s feet means he might be petted, or Steve will itch under his collar. It’s easy for him, and it means that Steve will think he’s good.  
   
It’s easy to curl up on the big, soft, fluffy pillows Steve has put beneath the desk, wrap his chains around his ankles just to feel closer. How is it possible to be so – blissful? Content? Tony thinks, there are things he _should_ be worrying about, but he can’t think what. This is bad, maybe, for reasons he doesn’t want to prod at, doesn’t want to consider –  
   
He sits up, rests his chin on Steve’s knee. _Distract me,_ he says with his eyes.  
   
Steve carelessly ruffles his hair, but for the most part ignores him. _No,_ Tony thinks, _that’s no good._ He rubs his cheek against Steve’s knee. He butts his brow against his inner thigh. He pushes in closer, noses at his --  
   
Steve is pulling his hair, sharp. “No,” he says, firmly. “Not there, Tony.”  
   
“But I want to,” Tony whines.  
   
“But you can’t. This isn’t about me, it’s about you. If you enjoy sucking cock, I’m glad for you, but this isn’t about your pleasure. It’s a punishment.”  
   
“You don’t let me,” he croaks, trying to think of the right words. “I – I sometimes think, is it because you don’t trust me?”  
   
“No, Tony,” Steve says. “It’s because you’re not here for me.” He sounds sad. Tony doesn’t want him to be sad, not when he’s been so kind.  
   
“I can be here for you,” he offers, nuzzling him under the desk, his thick, hot groin. “You can make it my punishment. I have to – to suck you off.” Tony feels himself hardening, he thinks, _oh, that sounds nice._ “You could punish me like that,” he says again, trying to hide his eagerness.  
   
“That doesn’t sound like a punishment for you anymore, Tony,” Steve says wryly. “Do you _like_ the idea of sucking me?”  
   
Tony can’t lie to Steve, but he tries. “No,” he says, and it must show, because Steve laughs.  
   
“That’s good, Tony. A month ago, you never would have admitted that that made you feel good. But this is a punishment, baby, so I can’t have you feeling _too_ good.”  
   
Tony feels crushed. It must show on his face. “Do you want something to fill your mouth, Tony?” Steve asks, and his voice is – low. Husky. He’s leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed. He can feel Steve hardening. Without answering, he opens his mouth, and sticks out his tongue.  
   
“You shouldn’t be getting off on this, Tony. It’s punishment. Maybe I need to make it a little more unpleasant.” Tony is getting harder, though, even when Steve says that. It makes him hot, it makes him want to rut against Steve’s thigh, he curses the stupid fucking jock-strap Steve never lets him remove. _Yes,_ he thinks, distant from himself, _please punish me. I want to be humiliated._  
   
Steve sighs, crumples up some paper from the desk, slots it inside Tony’s willing mouth. “You keep that. When you’re full up, spit it into the other trashcan,” Steve says, dismissively. The _other_ trashcan. Oh. Tony shivers, makes a stupid moaning sound.  
   
“Dumpsters can’t talk,” Steve says, and Tony takes that as his cue to shut up. But he’s so hard it hurts, his cock twitching just at the thought of this, at being reduced. _I don’t have to be Tony Stark,_ he thinks, giddily, _I’m whatever Steve wants me to be_.  
   
Steve is lying to him, Tony thinks. Steve says this is a punishment. But he _knows_ how this makes Tony feel. He knows it makes him hard, makes him hot all over. He’s doing this on purpose.  
   
The second piece of paper is scrunched up, forced carelessly inside him. This time, it’s a whole sheet, and it takes up his whole mouth. He shuffles, chains clinking, to the trashcan and works it out of his mouth with his tongue.  
   
This gives him something to do. Steve will fill his mouth with paper, pencil shavings. He’ll stick post-it notes and left over memos on Tony’s face, over his eyes so he can’t see. With curiosity, he plays with a paperclip then slides it over Tony’s nipple; the pain is sharp, almost too sharp, but Tony takes it gladly. He scrawls something on Tony’s brow in a thick marker, smelling of alcohol, circles the nipple that isn’t swollen with the paperclip.  
   
He’s pushing back Tony’s head, his mouth stuffed with paper. “Here,” he says, “you keep that there.” It’s the pen, poised carefully on the dip where nose meet brow. Steve doesn’t announce his departure; he just gets up, and leaves.  
   
Tony can’t empty himself because he isn’t full yet. Steve told him not to drop the pen. He is confident that Steve will be back. He knows Steve would never leave him this vulnerable, this defenceless.  
   
So he waits. It’s that simple: all he has to do is wait.  
   
After some time, Steve returns. He doesn’t acknowledge Tony. He hears him sigh, tap at the keyboard, like he’s writing a report. The sun must have slipped in the sky, because Tony isn’t as warm as he was, the sun is no longer bright behind the sticky notes covering his eyes. He feels… blissful. At peace. Even his arousal – which has faded somewhat, but is still present – isn’t as urgent.  
   
“Empty,” Steve says. Tony realises he must be talking to him. It’s hard to move, with his eyes covered and the pen on his nose; he drops it. “It’s alright,” Steve tells him. “Just empty what you have.”  
   
He has to find the trash, and spits out the paper and pencil shavings. It’s harder to work off the sticky notes with mittened hands. He can’t take off the paperclip without Steve. He whimpers, butting his head against Steve’s thigh. “Here,” he says, and his fingers gently pry at the sensitive, swollen bud. Tony wants to cry. “It’s okay,” Steve soothes, “that’s done, now. You’re not the trashcan anymore. But you did such a good job, Tony. An excellent job.”  
   
He softly rubbing his thumb around Tony’s nipple, soothing it. “I’ll ice it,” he tells him, cupping his face. “And I’ll have to wash off this,” he adds, tracing the writing on Tony’s brow.  
   
“What does it say?” Tony sniffs. Again, he isn’t crying; he’s just very overwhelmed with how he feels.  
   
“Trash,” Steve says, softly. “But can I tell you something, Tony? You aren’t trash. You’re perfect.”  
   
And with that, he presses with, light kiss on Tony’s brow.  
   
_I’ll do whatever you say if you do that again,_ Tony thinks, dazed. How can someone so strong be so gentle? Steve is – hugging him. He’s hugging him. Tony nuzzles his face into the crook of his throat, wraps his mittened hands around Steve’s neck. _This is it,_ he thinks drowsily, _this is what submission is meant to be._ Release, and comfort.  
   
   
After he’s been fed, and washed, and his hands powdered and placed back in their bonds, Steve puts Tony to bed, ties his leash to the headboard.  
   
“I want you to stay,” he mumbles.  
   
“I will,” Steve assures. “I’m just on the couch.”  
   
“No,” Tony insists, reaching out. “Stay. Here, with me.”  
   
“I can’t,” Steve says, quietly. “I’m sorry, Tony.”  
   
“No, you can,” Tony presses. “You can just – lie here. Please.” Tony wants to feel him. He wants to rest his head on Steve’s chest, and show him how grateful he is, show him, in some small way, what his kindness means.  
   
Steve is stroking his hair. “I can’t, Tony. I don’t get to have you in that way. This isn’t for me.”  
   
“I wish it was,” Tony murmurs, eyes half-shut. “I wish it was for both of us.”  
   
“Maybe,” Steve concedes. “Maybe, when this is done, it might be.”  
   
   
Tony doesn’t know how to handle it, the sticky sensation of shame in his belly.  
   
He loved it. Can he admit that to himself, privately? Yes, of course, he loved it. He concedes, he throws up his hands, he finally lets himself know the truth: kneeling at Steve’s feet, tied to a leash, treated like an adored puppy, was – fulfilling. It made him feel loved. It made him feel peaceful. He can think clearly, he can breathe fully, his mind is at rest. It’s like Steve has wiped the slate clean, with those two days, and he can’t wait for it to happen again.  
   
But.  
   
Still, he feels disgrace, remembering all those things he did. Eating dinner from the floor like an animal, sucking on Steve’s toes, letting him – use him, the way he used him. The acts themselves aren’t even humiliating any more, it’s the fact that Tony _likes_ them that gets him, that makes his stomach bleed shame.  
   
   
Tony had avoided him, for the three days after his punishment. He’d avoided all of them. Steve had cut him some slack; it had been the man’s first intense, long-term scene, and he deserved a break from them if that’s what he wanted.  
   
He had been beautiful, though. So willing, so eager. Clint is right, Tony truly is a sweet thing when he’s under. It reassures Steve, just slightly, that he made the right choice; it was the right decision, having Tony here, risking their tenuous peace to avoid Tony being forced under the thumb of some cruel dom. He’s too sweet. He’s too vulnerable for any of that. When he’s under, all Tony wants is affection, reassurance, the knowledge that he’s doing well and you think he’s good.  
   
(Steve envies it, almost. What must it be like, to be able to relinquish like that?)  
   
He’s working out of the conference room, with the wide glass walls. He has a teleconference with Ross in fifteen minutes, and he’s desperately trying to review the pointers he was supposed to have looked at while he was teasing Tony’s nipples with a paperclip. _Worth it,_ he thinks, secretly, privately, for the sounds Tony had made, the little ‘O’ of his lips, the way the bud had swollen, hot and tight like a woman’s –  
   
No. Stop. You don’t get to think of him that way. _Stop._  
   
“Am I disturbing?”  
   
Steve nearly jumps out of his skin, spills coffee across his papers. “Shit,” he mutters, “Tony, you’re – no, you’re not disturbing, never. I’ve got a call with Ross in – “ he checks his watch, “ – ten minutes.” Did he really spend five minutes just thinking about Tony’s nipples?  
   
“Okay,” Tony says, going for a smile. He seems tired, but not in the frazzled, anxious way he used to be tired. More like… lazy. His hair is freshly washed and curling, his bare-chested, wearing just slacks that hang too low on his hips. It’s like – it’s like he’s walked out of one of Steve’s fantasies. That is, if he had fantasies, which he _doesn’t,_ because that would be highly unethical. “Am I allowed to sit in, or…?”  
   
“If you – put on a show,” Steve manages. “I mean – if you seemed like you were – you know, if you – “  
   
“Looked like a good, disciplined little sub-soldier for Ross? It’s overdue, isn’t it?” He’s crossing the floor, heading for Steve. He tenses, leans back in his chair as Tony gets close, watches with held breath as he leans forward and –  
   
Picks up the spilt coffee mug. Mops up the spillage with the soaked papers. “You don’t want me to put these in my mouth?” He teases.  
   
Steve relaxes. _What did you think? That he was coming for you?_ “Funny,” he breathes, “just – stick them in the trash. I don’t need them anyway, I’m going to have to wing it.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony says, wiping his hand on his slacks, “you’ll be fine. You’re good at making things up as you go along.”  
   
“Am I?”  
   
“Sure,” Tony half smiles, “very – spontaneous. Actually, I wanted to talk to you, if that’s okay.”  
   
“It’s okay. It’s always okay. I just – “ Steve winces. “I’m sorry. This thing with Ross, I can miss it – “  
   
“After,” Tony says, relaxed, like it’s no problem. He perches on the edge of the table, swings his legs.  
   
“Did you enjoy it? Your punishment, I mean.”  
   
“Am I supposed to enjoy it?”  
   
“Not really,” Steve sighs. “But if you do… I’m not complaining.”  
   
“That’s sweet of you,” Tony says, and then looks away. Looks down, in fact, at his feet. “Yeah. I – enjoyed it. Actually, I kinda wanted to – talk about it, with you, if that’s alri – “  
   
Steve phone buzzes. _Incoming, five minutes,_ Ross’s secretary has told him. “Shit,” Steve mutters.  
   
“What is that, is that him?”  
   
“No, nothing, it’s just – almost time. What was that you were saying?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. So how should we do this? You can use me as a footstool, if you like?”  
   
Steve almost laughs at the absurdity of Tony Stark offering to be a footrest, and then he sees the earnestness in his eyes. “I – maybe. That would be uncomfortable. For you, I mean.” For Steve, too. He doesn’t like the idea, but then, he never does.  
   
“Kind of the point, I thought.”  
   
Steve beckons him closer. “C’mere,” he says, making his voice soft. “Turn around.” He eases his fingers against the waistband of Tony’s sweats, gently pushes them lower, so they pool around his thighs. Tony’s cock is still covered with the military grade jock-strap, poor boy. When was the last time he came? Steve feels bad, although he knows the importance of sticking to punishment once it’s been meted out. “Bend over the table. Let him think you’ve just been spanked within an inch of your life.”  
   
“Maybe you should,” Tony says, quietly.  
   
“What?”  
   
“Maybe you should spank me.” He turns, so he’s facing Steve, his hands still ghosting Tony’s hips.  
   
“I don’t – you don’t like that. Do you?”  
   
“I don’t,” Tony agrees.  
   
Now, Steve is just confused. “No,” he says, although it’s hard to ignore the way he pitches forward, sucks his lower lip, like the idea is something he would enjoy. “Just – over the table. Please.”  
   
“Like this?” Tony asks, spreading his arms flat against the glass. If you crouched underneath, you’d be able to see his rosy nipples pressed flat. Steve thinks about Bruce’s – what was it, serum? Spray? He thinks about Tony’s nipples, and the sounds he could force him to make if he used it there. _Stop it,_ he screams at himself, _he is not here for your gratification._  
   
Yet why does it feel like Tony brought himself here, shirtless, bare-foot, and asking to be spanked, because he _is_ here for Steve’s gratification? Like maybe, he _wants_ to be here for Steve’s satisfaction.  
   
He considers him, one last time, before Ross is holographic, standing in front of him like he was in the room himself. “Captain,” he says, casual, one hand in his pocket, the other on a cigar, leaning against his desk somewhere in Washington. “Oh, and look. It’s our little miscreant.”  
   
“Ignore him,” Steve says, sparing Tony the trouble. “He’s not allowed to talk,” he lies.  
   
“Oh really?” Ross says, and even in hologram, his eyes linger just a _little_ too long on places they shouldn’t. “Well, isn’t that nice?”  
   
He doesn’t sound completely convinced. “You wanted to talk,” Steve presses on. “I was – busy, these past few days.”  
   
“Beating him into shape. I heard. Ms Romanoff was very graphic, although – I suppose I expected him to be more bruised,” Ross says around the cigar, narrowing his eyes.  
   
“Beating,” Steve interrupts, cursing Natasha’s flair for the dramatic, “is probably too strong a word. I just took some time off to show him right from wrong. And as you can see, he’s a lot better for it.”  
   
“Very docile,” Ross agrees, but again, he’s sneering, like he knows it’s a lie. “Anyway. I wanted to discuss with you details about the new trade deal.”  
   
“T’Challa come through for you yet?”  
   
“No,” Ross says flatly. “Actually – no. Which is why I’m calling. I was thinking, a summit.”  
   
“A summit,” Steve repeats.  
   
“Sure. To celebrate the opening of the new embassy. I’ll be going, obviously, but you…”  
   
“You want me there.”  
   
“I want you all there,” Ross says, like it pains him. “I need you all there.”  
   
A beat. Steve carefully doesn’t look at Tony. “ _All_ of us?”  
   
“Yes,” Ross says slowly, like he’s talking to an idiot, “all of you. That includes the miscreant.”  
   
Steve wants to laugh. “T’Challa wants him, doesn’t he?”  
   
“He did say something about wanting to discuss Vibranium trade with someone who – actually understood Vibranium,” Ross mutters. “I imagine he thinks Stark is a good bet, or a safe pair of hands.”  
   
“When are you thinking?”  
   
“I’ll announce sometime this week. The summit will be about a month from now, I’ll have January send through the dates before we go public.”  
   
“Okay,” Steve agrees, easily. “Fine. That’s no problem for us. It’ll be good to see the king again,” he mentions, casually, just in case Ross forgot, “he was a fine host last time.”  
   
Ross doesn’t say anything. He sucks in smoke. “Yeah,” he agrees, flatly, for lack of anything else to say. “The uh, helms initiative,” he continues. “What we discussed last time we talked.”  
   
“What about it?”  
   
Steve can feel Tony twitch with curiosity. He lightly kicks him with his toes, reminds him to be still. “There was another incident,” Ross says, probably purposely vague so Tony won’t understand. “Two kids, actually. Football players from Ohio, in high school.”  
   
Steve winces. “God. That’s – “  
   
“Awful. Right. We found them, they’re recovering. A little scarred, a bit fucked up, but they’ll live. The thing is – “ Ross lowers his voice, “there was an incident at the school, about six months ago. You know what small towns are like. And boys… at that age, dominance is so new…”  
   
Steve knows where this is going. “Male or female?”  
   
“Female. They didn’t rape her,” Ross is quick to add, like that makes it okay. “You know, they just – practised. Terrible stuff,” he adds, “not condoning it at all, but to go and – kidnap them, do those things to them – “  
   
“I get it.”  
   
“Anyway. Point is, we think they’re stepping up their game. I’ll have a report sent through but… be wary, for what it’s worth.”  
   
“I always am.”  
   
“Good.” Ross drums his fingers against the table. “What else?” He muses. “Oh! Yes, I’ll be in town next week. I have a UN thing in the city, but after – I’ll be joining you for dinner, if you don’t mind.”  
   
Steve doesn’t let his hands tighten into fists. “Oh?”  
   
“I’m sure you won’t mind,” Ross saying, making a show of moving behind the desk, flicking through some papers. “I’m… eager, as it were, to see how your charge is getting on. You do write such detailed reports, Captain, but I sometimes wonder…”  
   
“You wonder?”  
   
Ross shrugs. “I wonder if you really have his best interests at heart.”  
   
“Meaning what?”  
   
“Meaning – if you have what it really takes to see the job done well. I sometimes think you’re soft on him, Captain.”  
   
“I’m not soft with him, I can assure you, Ross. If anything, I take pleasure in – “  
   
“No. Soft _on_ him. You know what I mean,” he says, with a twitch of the lips. “Anyway. Next Thursday, 9PM. Mark the date.”  
   
“I can hardly wait.”  
   
“I’m sure,” Ross breathes, puffing, reclining in his chair. “Do you have anything for me?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Good. I’ll see you on Thursday, then,” he smirks, signing off.  
   
Tony raises his head, straight away. “He wants to have me sent away.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
“He wants us to go to Wakanda?”  
   
“He does.”  
   
“He – what’s the helm’s initiative?”  
   
Steve says nothing. “Stand up,” he jerks his chin, “pull up your pants. Why don’t you go work or something, I’ll have a surprise for you tonight.”  
   
“Great,” Tony says, moving to stand in Steve’s vision, “but what’s the helm’s initiative?”  
   
Steve rests his chin on his hand, flicks his eyes upwards. “If I tell you, you’ll know,” he reasons.  
   
“Well that’s kinda that fucking point, genius.”  
   
“Tony…”  
   
“Sorry, that’s kinda the _flipping_ point, genius.”  
   
“I mean, you’ll know. And so if Ross – quizzes you, or gets too close – “  
   
“He doesn’t want me knowing?”  
   
“Hell no.” A beat. “I can – give you a rundown,” Steve concedes. “But you know this is classified. Not even the people who were taken would know who they were taken by, or why. It’s – complex. Lots of non-disclosure agreements, lots of – “  
   
“Quit with the foreplay, fuck me already.”  
   
“It’s not actually an initiative. That’s just the name some temp came up with. They’re a terrorist group, an off-shoot of HYDRA we _think.”_  
   
“You think?”  
   
“They have their grounding in there somewhere. What they’re really known for is a – serum.”  
   
“Super-soldier?”  
   
“I wish,” Steve dead-pans. “You know there are, what’s the word – drugs, I don’t know. They help subs go under. Or even, help subs stay up,” Steve says, pointedly.  
   
“Guilty as charged, you know the court thought I was a dirty little addict.”  
   
“Well what if it worked the other way, too? What if there was a drug that made doms – not.”  
   
“That made doms subs?”  
   
“Right.”  
   
Tony considers this. He snorts. “I can see why Ross wanted to keep that from me,” he murmurs, then laughs again, like it’s funny.  
   
“That’s humorous to you, huh?”  
   
“Yeah, a little bit, Steve. What do you want me to say? Those fucks probably had it coming, whatever they did to them. That poor girl, can you imagine _that_ being you first experience of submitting? Footballers,” Tony scoffs, “they’re all the same.”  
   
“Would you know?” Steve asks.  
   
“Huh?”  
   
“It’s just you said, imagine if that was your first experience of submitting. What was _your_ first experience of submitting?”  
   
Tony boops him on the nose. “Nice try, try harder. You said you had a surprise for me?”  
   
“Mm,” Steve says, standing, packing up his laptop. “Sure, if you were amenable.”  
   
“To what?”  
   
“You’ve been wearing that strap for a long time. How about we take it off tonight?”  
   
Tony swallows. “You’re gonna let me come tonight?”  
   
“Sure. If you’re good to us, first.”  
   
“Whose ‘us’?”  
   
“Me, Bruce, Natasha, Clint. The one’s you trust. Totally up to you. If you don’t feel it, I can just take it off tonight and you can – go to town on yourself. But if you had other ideas…”  
   
Tony’s eyes go hazy. “That depends,” he says, but his voice is losing its bite already, “what would you have me do?”  
   
   
“Thank you, Tony,” Bruce says warmly, holding out his glass for more wine. “Anyway. As I was saying, it’s a problem with the internal design. These big organisations – CIA, Shield, whatever, it’s either too much bureaucracy or not enough – “  
   
“Ah, shit,” Clint mutters. He’s split his wine on the glass table-top, mopping it up with a white cotton napkin. “Tony, could you – thanks.”  
   
He crouches, opens up his mouth, like he’s been trained to do. Clint presses it in, wedges it until Tony’s mouth can’t shut at all. It tastes like – detergent, weirdly. It must have been washed recently. A hint of the wine that Clint had mopped up.  
   
(Tony isn’t allowed any yet, but Tony doesn’t care. Tony is… Tony is…  
   
Dripping away.)  
   
“Hands behind your back,” Steve admonishes, quietly. “Good boy.”  
   
He flushes, head to toe, gripping his wrists in each hand, perched at the small of his back. _Good boy._ He is a good boy. He really, really is –  
   
“Do you think he’s hard?” Clint asks, conversationally. Oh. They’re talking about him, now, in that casual way they do, like he’s not really there.  
   
“Doesn’t matter,” Steve shrugs. “That guard doesn’t come off for another two days yet.”  
   
“Aww,” Natasha simpers, “but he’s been such a good boy.”  
   
“Has he?” Steve muses, teasing.  
   
Tony nods, drowsily, unasked. “Mmm-hmm,” he says behind the make-shift gag, which seems to make them laugh for some reason. It doesn’t feel nasty, or mean; it makes him feel like he’s done something right. He flushes again, shuffles on his feet.  
   
“Steve, look at that blush. You want to deny that?” Bruce says, warmly. “C’mon, cut him some slack.”  
   
“Maybe if he proves he’s a good boy,” Steve says, picking something out of his teeth, raising his brows. “Maybe then.”  
   
“Can you do it?” Bruce teases. “Can you be a good boy?”  
   
Sure he can. He – doesn’t know how, though. Or what Steve wants.  
   
“Go on,” Bruce says encouragingly, “be inventive. I know you can be.”  
   
Tony thinks, _god, I want to suck Steve’s cock._ He’s gets down on his knees, and he crawls under the table, goal in mind, fixed in place. “Ah ah,” Steve says, halting him gently. “No, Tony. You don’t get that yet.”  
   
He guides his head lower, pushes it to the floor between Steve’s boots. Oh. _Oh._  
   
It’s humiliating, the way he squirms there, nipples grazing the ground, ass in the air, licking Steve’s boots. He thinks, the others can’t see him, but then he doesn’t even care anyway. He’s so – his head is so – heavy, and full, but light at the same time. He wants to do whatever it will take to make Steve happy, always.  
   
His mouths along the rubber soul, tucks his tongue into the crevices, let’s Steve fuck his foot casually into his mouth. “Such a pretty mouth,” Steve sighs, “and so much better when it’s not used for talking, hmm?”  
   
Tony nods. This is where he belongs. Making other people happy, so he can be happy. That’s all that matters. Feeling good.  
   
“Oh, wow,” he hears someone say, hushed, awed. “Is he even – what’s that like, do you think? To get like that?”  
   
“Like bliss,” someone else answers, far away, distant. “I can’t even imagine,” they say, jealous, envious.  
   
“Imagine, he kept this hidden all that time,” someone says sadly. “Poor boy. Poor, poor boy. Why would he do that? Why would he _do_ that – “  
   
“Clint,” Steve says warningly.  
   
Tony wants more. He wants to do more than suck Steve’s shoes. He wants to go higher, bury himself in his groin, take him in his mouth and _show_ him how good he can be. He just wants to go so good for him, so Steve will tell him so, and stroke his hair, and Tony will be – complete, and flying –  
   
“Stop there,” Steve says gently. “You did a good job, Tony. You can get up now.”  
   
He dribbled down his chin, so he has to wipe it off, standing. He feels so loose, he could slip down to the floor. Whited out, a blank slate, ready to move however Steve wants him to move. He takes Tony’s hips, gently turns him around, does something to where the guard is held in place over his hips and –  
   
Gently peels it away. Tony moans. The air on his cock, which has spent so in that stupid, stupid cage. He thrusts, feeling the blood rush to him all at once, weak-kneed and – and –  
   
“Did he come?” Bruce asks, incredulously.  
   
“No,” Steve says, propping him up, arm around his waist. “That’s just pre-come. Look at that,” he says, hushed, working his hand once up Tony’s cock, watching it dribble down his fist in copious amounts. “He must be desperate.”  
   
He’s fucking Steve’s fist. Nothing would be able to stop him, his body is doing it of it’s own accord, little grunts and whimpers, anxious for release. “Don’t be mean,” Bruce says, “c’mon, you’ll hurt him.”  
   
Steve takes his away his hand. He _takes away his hand._ Tony sobs, still held in his grip, thrusting at air. “Please,” he breathes.  
   
“Please?” Steve repeats.  
   
“Yes. _Please._ Please, please, please – “  
   
Steve sighs, rests his hand back around Tony’s length. “Fuck my fist,” he says, casually.  
   
Tony does, frantic, desperate, coming like – like –  
   
It only takes ten seconds.  
   
After, he grunts, boneless. Steve isn’t done. He takes the napkin Tony had held in his mouth, tells him to clean up his mess. Then, he folds it up, rests it back on his tongue. “Be quiet now,” he says, sternly. “You’ve had your fun. Go stand in the corner till we know what to do with you.”  
   
Tony does. He’s floating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really struggling at the moment. If anyone wants to look at my [tumblr](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/post/173988595624/im-aware-this-is-a-long-shot) it explains the situation.


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